


Carry That Weight

by A Passing Housewife (flourchildwrites)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Character Development, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, Exposition, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, First Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headcanon, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Sins of the Father, Tattoos, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Young!Royai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-22 21:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flourchildwrites/pseuds/A%20Passing%20Housewife
Summary: Everyone knows about the brash Colonel and his irreplaceable Lieutenant.  But before the trials of the homunculi, before the horrors of Ishval, they were just Mr. Mustang and Miss Hawkeye.  A shared past forged in fire and fidelity.  An uncertain future burdened with purpose.  Can Riza and Roy carry the weight of Berthold Hawkeye's secrets?Chapter 16:  CheckmateAs the saying went, the eyes are a window to the soul, but Northrop Grumman did not agree.  He knew better than most that eyes could lie, cheat and steal just as well as a forked tongue.  Not all snakes slithered through the tall grass of a dry field or lay in wait at the low center of a wet ditch.  Duplicitous creatures wore many different skins, and they occupied every tier of society from barrister to barmaid.  No, the best way to divine the character of a person had nothing to do with physical attributes.It was all in the way they played chess.





	1. A Better Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! Welcome. Pull up a chair. Make yourself comfortable.
> 
> If you've seen any of my recent work, you knew this was coming. Writing RoyAi fan fiction is addictive. Before you know it, you work up all this headcanon, and it's just a matter of time before you write your first prequel to FMA: Brotherhood focusing on our favorite, so clearly canon (but not) coupling.
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story evolves. Characters will also be added as I go. I hope you don't mind, but the chapters will likely shift between the past and the present. 
> 
> Of course, please bear with me and let me know if there are any inconsistencies. I do most of my writing at night when I'm supposed to be, you know, sleeping.
> 
> Happy reading!

December 1905, A Graveyard near Hawkeye Manor 

Roy thought that his dress blues would have garishly stood out against a sea of black mourning clothes. Then again, Berthold Hawkeye was never one for folly or friends. His funeral was simple and poorly attended. No epitaph adorned his meager tombstone. Flame alchemy was what his teacher left behind. Flame alchemy and Riza, Miss Hawkeye.

Riza laid a simple bouquet of flowers upon her father’s final resting place. If the gesture had any special significance, aside from the mundane, it was lost on Roy. The true nature of their father-daughter relationship remained murky, not unlike the overcast clouds that hung heavily above the pair of mourners.

Cold pinpricks of precipitation fell sporadically across the scene. Roy smiled wryly. If Berthold Hawkeye, the antagonistic pacifist, had ever hated one thing without reservation, it was rain. How appropriate that rain would arrive late to the first flame alchemist’s funeral, as if this force of nature was getting the last laugh, flaunting water’s superiority.

“You don’t have to stay, Mr. Mustang,” Riza stated flatly, pulling Roy out of his reverie. Her straightforward tone cut through the emotion of the moment. Master Hawkeye would have approved of Riza’s stance, her determination to weather this storm on her own.

“No, I don’t have to,” Roy responded with equal curtness. “I want to make sure you’ll be ok.” After all, he made a vow. Even without the secrets of flame alchemy, he owed Master Hawkeye this much. And, if he was being honest with himself, there was something about Miss Hawkeye, an intensity in her eyes and a resolve in her posture that had not been there when he left to join the military.

“I can take care of myself,” Riza quickly responded.

“I have no doubt of that, Miss Hawkeye.” No, Berthold Hawkeye’s death was not his fault. However, Riza’s edge and the hardships of her father’s twilight years, that was Roy’s fault, if not his failing.

Yet, despite his cutting regrets, Riza’s hollow protestations and the dour atmosphere, Roy felt a sense of peace. He would remain by her side for as long as she would allow. Glancing over at his companion, Roy saw Riza’s demeanor soften.

“You’ve done so much. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough,” she gratefully noted.

“It’s the least I could do after everything he’s taught me.” An air of truth hung around his words. “You should take this.” He offered her his card. “You can call me in the military if you need to.”

Riza hesitantly took his card. _The military_ , Roy thought, _not exactly what she wants to be thinking about right now_. His master despised the military and had lectured (at length) regarding its perversion of alchemy. Back then, Roy knew what Berthold’s opinions were; nevertheless, he joined when his alchemy studies stagnated. Hawkeye Manor seemed like a dead-end, and the future held too much hope. His path had seemed clear; it still did.

“Let me guess. You also don’t approve of me becoming a soldier. Your father told me soldiers are left to die like trash on the side of the road. That may be,” Roy interjected into the brief pause in conversation.

He had to tell Miss Hawkeye why he joined; to make her understand why he left her alone with her distant father. “But I know it’s the only way to make a difference, and I know I’ll never be happy if I don’t try to make this country a better place.”

Riza’s eyes met Roy’s. It wasn’t often that she was caught off guard, but clearly the sincerity behind his words had done the trick, for better or worse. “Man, that must have sounded pretty childish, huh.”

“Not at all.  There’s nothing childish about caring,” Riza responded. “I’d like to believe that you’re serious about this, that you really do care. Can I trust you, Roy, with my father’s research?”

He should have been elated by Miss Hawkeye’s reference to her father’s jealously guarded research. The secrets of flame alchemy were the key to the illustrious future he envisioned for himself. Yet, Roy could not help but marvel that, for the first time since he’d known Riza she’d marked him as an equal. She’d called him by his first name.


	2. Humble Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said there were going to be flashbacks and flashforwards...

February 1899, Madame Christmas’ Bar in Central City 

He called his father’s sister Madame Christmas, never Aunt Chris, and Roy Mustang didn’t think that was strange. He remembered his parents, a slender woman with almond eyes and a tall man with a strong, chiseled jawline, but he didn’t remember the accident. Nevertheless, Roy’s childhood had been colorful, filled with celebrations for mundane accomplishments and attractive people. There were also secrets, everything from sweet nothings whispered at the bar to clandestine calls made in plain sight.

Old man Grumman frequented Madame Christmas’ hostess bar in Central. It was only natural that he thought of his granddaughter when he saw young Roy seated at the end of the bar, nose deep in an alchemy book meant for seasoned apprentices. The juxtaposition exaggerated the boy’s youth.

Grumman smiled ruefully. Riza was about his age, younger perhaps. Of course, he had not seen the child in years. Relations between Grumman and his son-in-law had never been cheery. In the beginning, the two men had been downright hostile toward one another, and then, they lost her.  Grumman avoided thinking of his deceased daughter when possible; his beautiful granddaughter was an ugly reminder of loss.

“Say, I’ve seen that boy before. He’s younger than your usual customer,” Grumman remarked as the Madame poured him something tall and strong. “Is he your charge or one of your ladies?”

“He’s right where he belongs,” replied Madame Christmas. The finality in her tone left no room for ambiguity. That was none of Grumman’s damn business.

“I see he’s interested in alchemy, not many apprenticeships around here. The state alchemists these days don’t seem to want to share the finer details of their craft. It’s a shame if you ask me,” Grumman casually added.

Madame Christmas’ first instinct was to say she hadn’t asked him. Tight lips were a useful tool of both her trades. Instead, she paused and considered her child. Roy was a fine boy, and one day, he’d make a good man. But, as he approached adulthood, she had her concerns.

Chris had meticulously molded the mind of her nephew. She’d seen to his general education and instilled an appreciation of art and music by way of private tutors. By the age of 13, Roy was impeccably well-rounded, a jack of all trades with a lopsided grin. He wanted for mastery in a single area.

And (truth be told) Roy lacked at least two vital assets to be of practical use in her parlor.

“I’ll bite, Grumman. What do you have in mind?” She cautiously responded.

Twenty minutes later, it was decided. Chris Mustang would contact Berthold Hawkeye, an obstinate alchemist who had fallen on hard times. The good lady would make Berthold a lucrative offer that he could not refuse in exchange for Roy’s apprenticeship. For his part, Grumman would finally pay his tab. All Roy had to do was excel in his studies and send a letter to the old man from time to time.

* * *

 March 1899, Hawkeye Manor

Unsurprisingly, the plan worked. Berthold’s poverty, if not his will, consented to the apprenticeship, and 13-year-old Roy Mustang found himself living at Hawkeye Manor by the end of the month. Of course, mum’s was the word regarding Roy arrangement with Grumman, and the aspiring alchemist met the subject of his coded correspondence straight away. Unfortunately, he mistook her for a boy.

Roy told himself that the mistake was understandable in context. He’d never expected a child, let alone a young girl to answer the door, and Riza looked less like the Miss of the manor than a hired hand. Her overalls were dusty from the day’s work and patched at the left knee. The band of a slingshot dangled out of her front pocket, and her straw-colored hair was haphazardly cropped as if she’d done it herself.

“I’m sorry Miss-uh,” Roy stuttered. “It’s just your hair is so short. All Madame’s ladies have long hair. I didn’t realize… And I just arrived… And…”

“It’s Miss Hawkeye,” interjected the young tomboy, somewhat self-consciously. “My name’s Riza… but father doesn’t like it when his students call me by my first name.”

“Miss Hawkeye,” Roy responded. With the gender guffaw behind him, he straightened up and presented himself appropriately. “I’m Roy Mustang.” He held out his hand, formally as Madame insisted but with a sincere smile.

Miss Hawkeye hesitated as if the concept of a handshake was foreign to her; but, after a moment of contemplation, she tentatively shook Roy’s outstretched hand, as if deciding to like him on a trial basis. “I have to call you Mr. Mustang. Follow me. Father is expecting you. You’ll call him Master or Master Hawkeye. His hair is long, but he’s a boy.”

* * *

 September 1901, Hawkeye Manor

Seasons came and went. The Hawkeyes and Roy quickly fell into a predictable routine. Roy was as steadfast a student as Chris Mustang had promised, perhaps better. He devoured the massive tomes assigned by Berthold with fervor. What he lacked in talent, he made up for in enthusiasm.

Young Riza proved herself to be an invaluable asset to Roy. Despite her tender age, she took great pride in the upkeep of her father’s home. Miss Hawkeye eagerly shared her expertise with Mr. Mustang, an equally eager (and generally uncomplaining) listener.

Meanwhile, an ancillary cast of interchangeable characters filed in and out of the manor once or twice a year, each departing for greener apprenticeships with kinder mentors. The manor itself was not unlike its master; no change was tolerated except the unavoidable consequences of age. The necessary furniture – a kitchen table, a living room couch, a moth-eaten wingback chair – was dwarfed by the size of the rooms. And yet odd inclusions such as the grand but unused dining room table, an ornate coat rack, a gold trimmed mirror hanging in the hallway, spoke of happier times long passed.

Master Hawkeye was an exacting tyrant, a consummate perfectionist. His stringy blond hair accompanied surprisingly intense blue eyes. Berthold’s perpetual five o’clock shadow exaggerated the deep lines of his long face. His sloppy dress and pauper-like appearance masked a sharp intellect. At the best of times, he was merely consumed by his work, not unlike a moth to the flame.

Roy thought that loss brought people together, but Master Hawkeye and Riza seemed to dwell on separate islands. As time passed, it became clear to Roy that Riza’s obsession with chores and her attention to detail were for her father’s benefit. Through her tireless devotions, she craved acknowledgment, and in this vein, Master Hawkeye responded, allowing himself leave to take pride in a daughter who showed no interest or ability in alchemy.

With virtually no competition, Roy became Riza’s companion. Having completed his general education early, the young man often assisted Miss Hawkeye with her studies. In the evenings, he told her vibrant stories of far off places. All things considered, Miss Hawkeye and Mr. Mustang could not say they were unhappy. By the second year, one might even call them friends.

“Miss Hawkeye, quiet down,” Roy whispered as he followed the sound of Riza’s footfalls across the stone threshold.

“If your father hears you, we’ll be cleaning out the chicken coop.”

“You’ll be doing that, Mr. Mustang,” Riza hissed. “I’ll be sewing those flimsy gloves. Hurry up. We’re almost there.”

The mismatched pair darted across the front lawn, and Riza quickly began to work her way up the lone oak tree. Roy sighed. Childish as it seemed, he had to follow her.

_If she falls, she’ll get hurt_ , he thought, _and that just won’t do_.

Roy started up the tree right behind the blond spitfire, but, true to form, Riza was faster. Her muscle memory never faltered. On the other hand, Roy struggled to create a counterbalance with his arms, but he made it to Riza’s favorite branch unscathed, except for his pride.

While the 15-year-old alchemy student firmly believed he had no business climbing trees, the stars were bright, and the night air felt refreshing. Miss Hawkeye seemed happier than she had in weeks. Roy smiled in spite of it all. She deserved more happiness than her rural existence afforded her.

Despite the formalities imposed by his master, Roy was comfortable with Riza. He chalked up their easy rapport to a symptom of his upbringing, but in truth, the isolation of Hawkeye Manor was the real culprit. Mr. Mustang and Miss Hawkeye’s relationship fell somewhere either north or south of family, certainly more than friends.

Likewise, Roy’s correspondence with General Grumman conveyed a sense of admiration for Riza. At only 12 years of age she’d endured loss and loneliness with the patience and fortitude of an old soul. He’d come clean about the letters to Riza one day.

“Father just had to study flame alchemy,” she complained. “The house is an oven when he’s working. I wish it would rain.”

“If it were raining, we’d be stuck inside, and your father would be in one of his moods,” Roy stated in a matter-of-fact tone. She wasn’t wrong about the temperature of the manor.

“You should try alchemy sometime. We could study together, Miss Hawkeye.”

“No,” Riza said with certainty. “I have enough to do now with school and the manor. And I won’t have time for flame alchemy when I’m older.”

“Why is that?” Roy asked earnestly.

“Because, I’ll be old enough to leave this place, to see all the things you keep telling me about.”  

The fervor in her young voice was tainted with desperation. Roy didn’t envy her circular existence, the way her days revolved around Master Hawkeye’s monotonous routine.  In retrospect, it was a miracle Berthold had provided for her education as well as he’d managed.  Albeit, a miracle surreptitiously funded by old man Grumman through Roy's tuition.

“And leave me here?” Roy teased with a smile.

“You could take me with you when you leave,” Riza said in a small voice, more like a prayer than a declaration. “We could cross the desert and visit Xing, Ishval too. We’ll see those ruins. You know, Xerxes. That place you’re always reading about.”

“You know master would never allow it, Miss Hawkeye,” Roy stated matter-of-factly. It wasn’t fair to fill her head with dreams only to crush them later.

“Then I’ll run away,” Riza resolved. “We could change our names… You can be Robert, and I’ll be Elizabeth.”

Roy didn’t bother to protest. It was a wonderful dream.

“Elizabeth, huh. That’s a nice name.”

“It was my mother’s.”


	3. Changes and Truth

December 1905, Hawkeye Manor 

Roy and Riza left the graveyard with as little fanfare as possible. They walked in silence down the worn dirt road. Their surroundings were both familiar and foreign to Roy, as were most places he frequented during his adolescence. Riza hardly seemed to notice the old oak tree, but Roy hesitated as they passed it. So much had changed in only two years, and for the first time since returning, he took a moment to appreciate Riza Hawkeye.

When he left for the military academy, he’d thought of her as pretty, but this sentiment no longer rang true. A man like Roy would never call a woman like Riza pretty; it was too lazy. In a word, she was captivating.

Her flaxen hair was now golden, sweeping tantalizingly behind her ears and gathering at the nape of her neck. Her once brown eyes appeared copper veiled in melancholy cream. Roy let Riza’s pace overtake his to appreciate her figure better, and he smirked at his boldness. Even at age 17 - the age Roy was when he left - the studious Mr. Mustang would not have openly admired Miss Hawkeye's long, toned legs or her well-defined waist.

“I know it’s not what it used to be,” Riza said gazing toward the house. Roy tore his eyes from her figure and guiltily pressed his lips together. He wasn’t sure that Riza hadn’t noticed his blatant indiscretion. Roy willfully directed his eyes toward the remnants of a once grand house.

In contrast to Riza, Hawkeye Manor was forlorn. Weeds grew unchecked throughout the yard, and the two-story home’s white paint was cracked and peeling in the better areas. Yellowed lace curtains fluttered stiffly in the downstairs windows. “I couldn’t keep it up by myself, and as father said, he stopped living after he finished his research. It was all I could do to get him to eat.”

“How long?” Roy asked without further clarification.

“About a six months after you left,” she responded coldly. “Come inside; the rain is picking up.”

Dutifully, Roy followed her, taking in the household’s changes or, rather, lack thereof. Riza led him to the kitchen, and he slid into his seat at the rustic table with surprising ease. Just like old times, Roy thought as he accepted a cup of coffee. Riza didn’t have to ask how he took it, she already knew.

On the other hand, the bottle of bottle of brandy she set between them was new and unexpected. “So your goals haven’t changed,” she observed as she took her seat with a cup in hand. “You still want to use alchemy for other people, make this world a better place.”

“Of course, Riza.” Saying her name satisfied him more than he expected, and Roy realized that he still hadn’t answered her first question. “You can trust me with his research, but that’s not what I came here for.”

Riza poured a shot of liquor into her coffee and asked, “Then what did you come to see my father for, Roy?”

She had him there.

“Alright,” Roy responded candidly. He grabbed the brandy bottle and laced his own drink with liquid courage. Only the truth, the honest-to-God, unadulterated truth, would do. “That’s exactly what I came to see your father for. I want to be a state alchemist. It’s the best way for a guy like me to advance; but without something special to offer, without flame alchemy, I don’t have a shot in hell.”

 _And you came to see her, to make good on that promise_ , he reminded himself. She continued before he could dwell on that particular thought.

“I could sell it, you know, his research,” Riza said shrewdly looking down at her glass. Roy noticed that half of her simple cocktail was already gone. “I could buy everything my father didn’t give me.”

“You could,” Roy stated with the same frank tone, “but you’re bluffing.”

“It’s been two years, Roy,” she replied with an equally blunt tenor. A blush appeared on the apples of her cheeks. “Maybe I’ve changed.”

“Oh, you’ve changed, Riza” Roy observed, somewhat darkly. “But not in that way.” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew what her next question would be.

“In what way have I changed?”

He took a sip from his coffee cup and brought his hand to rest near hers on the small table.  Their fingers touched delicately, sharing what little warmth they could give.  Roy caught Riza's eyes, and he held her gaze like something precious.

“Well, you’ve never called me Roy before.”


	4. Letters from Hawkeye Manor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome and (hopefully) welcome back! And yes, we're flashing back again! Why can't I just tell the story in sequential order? I'm not sure. You can ask my good writing buddy Kirkland Signature Ti Point Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc. Fan-freaking-tastic for under $10.00 a bottle.
> 
> So, these next two chapters are (in my humble opinion) where things start to get interesting for young Roy and Riza. Given the years so kindly (and freely) provided by Fullmetal Alchemist Wiki, I'm placing Roy at 17 years old and Riza at 14. If you've got a problem with the age gap, I offer you my sincere apologies. You can blame the source material.
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

November 1903, Madame Christmas’s Bar in Central City

“Welcome back, Roy-boy,” Madame Christmas said as 17-year-old Roy Mustang entered her parlor.  The room fell silent as she greeted her nephew.  When Madame spoke, everyone listened. 

A quick once over was all it took.  Simply put, Roy had become a handsome man during his absences.  Dark hair, determined eyes, a lopsided grin and he knew when to shut up.  She credited herself with that last characteristic.  Roy’s father would have been pleased; his mother would have liked to tame his perpetual bed-head.

“Roy!” exclaimed a few of the ladies.  The women who were not entertaining welcomed the Madame’s nephew.  Vanessa, in particular, attempted to abandon her post with a brigadier general of some importance, but Madame Christmas halted her attempt with a scathing look.  Business then pleasure.

Roy happily made his way to the bar and thanked Christine for helping him with his coat.  The hard chores of Hawkeye Manor kept his body strong.  Madame smirked as Zoey’s head turned.  She was new.  She would soon learn Roy’s place in relation to her own… and Vanessa’s.

“I could use a place to relax after my travels,” he directed to Madame Christmas.

“Come then, if you’re done with your hellos,” she replied.  “Your arrangements are in order.”

Behind closed doors, Chris Mustang’s reception was warmer.  It had been almost a full year since she’d seen her adoptive son; the longest stretch of time since he’d left to study alchemy.  His “arrangements” were, of course, his boyhood bedroom and a shared bathroom in the Madame’s private suite. 

Roy smiled as he entered the pastel blue room.  It was clad with silly drawings and colorful posters, relics of his not-so-distant past.  No matter how much time passed, this room never changed.  That simple fact was an unspoken rule of Chris Mustang’s household.  It gave the young man more comfort than he realized.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about, Roy,” Madame Christmas said as she moved to close Roy’s door.  “General Grumman and I will be waiting whenever you’re finished freshening up.”

* * *

 “So you’ve told my granddaughter about our correspondence, eh Roy,” Grumman restated.  “Any reason why?”

“Yes, Sir,” Roy responded truthfully.  “Respectfully, I consider Miss Hawkeye a friend, and I felt she deserved to know that you are interested in her well-being.  I understand that this ends our agreement, but I believe Miss Hawkeye will be amenable to a relationship with you, given some time.”

“And did Riza express such amenability when you spoke with her?” Grumman asked, genuine amusement playing across his face.

“No, Sir,” Roy stated sheepishly.  “She asked me to leave and threatened to shoot me if I didn’t.  As I’ve told you before, your granddaughter’s an excellent markswoman.  I did as she asked.”

“A wise decision then,” Grumman observed, “and a job well done.  I never expected you to suffer under Berthold’s tutelage for three years, and while I have enjoyed getting to know my granddaughter through our letters, I should have put an end to it long ago.” 

Roy exchanged a surprised glance with Madame Christmas; as ever, her expression was unreadable.

“In fact, I think you’ve chosen your loyalties wisely.  A good soldier follows orders, but, in my mind, a leader understands that he is accountable for his actions.  While this is, sadly, the end of our contract, I’m prepared to make you a new offer.  There’s an opening at the academy, and your 18th birthday is right around the corner if I’m not mistaken.  If you’ve learned all you can from Berthold, the spot’s yours, Roy.  Class starts in January.”

“It’s a generous offer, Grumman,” Madame Christmas said placing her hand over Roy’s on the table.  “We will get back to you within a fortnight.”


	5. Summer Strawberries

December 1903, Madame Christmas’s Bar in Central City

Roy remained in Central City for a week while he weighed his options and enjoyed the uncomplicated company of the parlor staff, particularly Vanessa.  Her flirtatious banter never disappointed, but always fell short of anything genuine.  Madame’s ladies were like his sisters, disturbingly attractive and affectionate sisters, but sisters nonetheless.  Their attentions were welcome distractions, but the deadline loomed like the storm clouds Master Hawkeye futility cursed.  On the last day, for better or worse, Roy’s focus returned with uncharacteristic clarity. 

The facts were simple:  He had mastered the basics of alchemy sometime ago, and Master Hawkeye’s teachings were going in circles.  The secrets of flame alchemy were not within Roy’s grasp, and waiting for Berthold to have a change of heart was a fool’s errand.  Moreover (and despite his master’s fervent argument to the contrary), the military was an ideal option.  His aunt’s long association with Amestris’ government was a testament to the power held in that flourishing branch. 

The question was not if Roy would join the military; it was when we would join the military.

 _Miss Hawkeye_ , he thought as he rolled a loose coin across his knuckles.  Could he leave her at that Godforsaken house with her oblivious father?  Riza would never tell her father about the letters; despite her threat, she’d guaranteed her silence for everyone’s sake.  But would she forgive Roy?  Would she believe that he’d never shared their secrets, and he’d kept the better memories to himself?

At 10 years of age, Riza was Miss Hawyeye, his Master’s daughter, a timid tomboy and his teacher in all things rural life.  At 12, she was his companion, and he was her sounding board.  Their friendship lit the dark halls of Hawkeye Manor just enough to discern light at the end of the tunnel.  Then, Riza turned 14. 

In the solace of his boyhood home, Roy admitted to himself that the attraction began last summer, around her birthday.  He always felt closer to her in the summers, the season when three years, not four, separated their ages.  At first, Roy tried to think of Miss Hawkeye as a sister, the way he thought of Madame’s ladies, but denial wasn’t working.

Perhaps Riza had matured slowly, but Roy swore she’d been endowed with feminine wiles overnight.  In his mind, a girl went to bed one evening, and a young woman named Riza Hawkeye replaced her at breakfast next day.  Roy hadn’t seen it coming, and no amount cold showers could wipe the back-lit silhouette of Riza's legs, seen through a simple white skirt, from his mind’s eye.  Was it time to give that satisfying pull behind his navel a name?  Would it ever be?

The scent of strawberry perfume distracted Roy as it wafted across the parlor.  He was unmoved by the smell in general; rural life had ruined his senses when it came to imitations.  The real thing smelled so much better.  Nevertheless _,_ a potent memory vied for his attention.  Roy couldn’t have ignored it if he wanted to.

* * *

 August 1903, Hawkeye Manor

Over dinner, Master Hawkeye abruptly informed Mr. Mustang and Miss Hawkeye that he would no longer be accepting new students.  Berthold grew more impatient by the day, and he’d unceremoniously dismissed their only other companion two months prior for a minor transmutation error.  The duo displayed appropriate recognition of his decision, but after Master Hawkeye retired for the evening, they wasted no time in surreptitiously organizing a small celebration in the apprentice dormitory. 

What might have been unfortunate news for other company-starved teenagers was refreshing for Riza and Roy.  No more awkward hellos and goodbyes.  No more repetitive ranting and raving about the master’s abrupt ways or harsh comments about their simple way of life.  They savored their solitude like the eye of a storm.

The defunct dormitory was long and narrow with three beds and a window at each end.  Riza opened the windows allowing a midsummer night’s breeze to flow through the room.  Roy threw the two spare mattresses on the floor and rolled out their small celebratory spread, fruit from the garden and chocolate from Chris Mustang’s latest care package.  The teenagers quietly ate and reminisced well into the evening, careful not to alert Roy’s master. 

“Do you remember Roland?” Riza asked.

“Was he the boy from Liore?” Roy replied.  “The one who nearly starved because of his sensitive stomach?”

“Oh no,” she said, rolling onto her back.  “That was Poul.  Roland lived somewhere near Briggs, just a year younger than you.  He’d eat anything you put in front of him.  Terrible accent.  He called me his winter wildflower.”

“You hated that name,” Roy observed with a triumphant sneer.  There was only one labor left between him and the secrets of flame alchemy:  Berthold Hawkeye’s trust.  He finished off the last of the ripe figs and lay beside Riza.  Nights like this were a luxury they could rarely afford.  Their days began at dawn.  Sleep beckoned, but Roy has no intention of answering the call.

“Not as much as you might think,” she said in a small voice.  Roy turned to see her blushing in the dark and guarded envy twisted in his gut like a dagger.  “He was… nice.”

“Miss Hawkeye!” Roy said, poorly masking his jealousy with shock.  Riza motioned for him to quiet down.

“It was one time,” she said, not as an apology, but merely factual recitation.  “Just a kiss or two… So awkward and not worth it.  Father caught us and almost flambéed him.  He sent Roland home the next day for some arbitrary reason and gave me a talking to.  Father thought it would have been you.  Growing up where you did and all, but you were too busy with your books.”

Roy wasn’t sure what observation gnawed at his pride more, the cheap shot at Madame Christmas’ Bar or the idea that he was too wrapped up in his studies to notice her, just like her father. 

“It’s not… I’m not like that,” he mumbled uncomfortably.  “You’re only… We just can’t…”

“Because you don’t want to or because my father would ask you to leave?” She quickly asked.  Her query cut through his hollow rhetoric.  Miss Hawkeye wasn’t asking questions; she was demanding answers.

Roy couldn’t muster a witty retort.  Suddenly, their isolated predicament was less naïve.  Riza’s pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and her white shift clung to her increasingly supple figure.  _When did she start wearing dresses?_   He heedlessly mused.  But neither teenager moved.

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Roy lied as he tore his eyes away to stare blankly at the pitched ceiling.  “You’re four years younger than me.”

“Three and a half,” Riza corrected him.  “Think about it now, Mr. Mustang.” She reached out, placing her hand on his cheek as she directed him to look at her.  Their eyes met.

“That’s not-” Roy sputtered before she cut him off.

“It’s the same as this though isn’t it?”  She reasoned.  “Father would ask you to leave if he knew we spent time together like this, but we do it anyway.”  Riza shifted closer to Roy.  He could make out the faint scent of strawberries on her breath mixed with gun oil, probably from her hand.  “So, would you kiss me, just once, if father never found out?”

Words failed Roy, but his impatient mouth found the answer pressed against Riza’s soft lips.  He closed his eyes as gravity drew them together.  Roy marveled at his own audacity, and before he could wonder if he’d gone too far, he felt Riza's fingers in his hair.

 As she wound his disheveled locks between her fingers, Roy found all the encouragement he needed.  His arm encircled her waist as he hungrily pressed their bodies together.  Roy felt the blood coursing through his chest, and he savored Riza’s rising pulse.

He tilted his head back, only enough to draw a ragged breath before cautiously nibbling on her bottom lip, as if asking permission.  A combination of lust, urgency, and nervousness rose from the pit of his stomach, but Riza responded to his inartful gesture, parting the divide.  Roy slipped his tongue past her lips, lightly teasing as best he could.  Just as he suspected, she tasted like strawberries.

Acting on instinct alone, Roy drew his hand from her waist, slowly sliding up Riza’s back as his thumb traced the line of her spine.  Riza arched against him, whimpering into his mouth.  He wanted to make her writhe under his touch, but Riza was a quick learner.  Her tongue reciprocated Roy’s earlier attentions, exploring his mouth.  It fueled the fire and led the young alchemist to an unfamiliar crossroads of contradictions:  right and wrong, duty against desire, patience versus urgency.  This wasn’t passion so much as adoration, if only for an instant.

And the moment passed, as time is wont to do.  Roy broke the kiss and sat up, still breathing raggedly and unsure of himself.  If he looked back at Riza and saw that she wanted him too, he’d never be able to keep up the pretense of Miss Hawkeye and Mr. Mustang. 

He’d confess his affections, keep her in his embrace until dawn.  One way or another, Master Hawkeye would find out, and Roy knew too well what happened to apprentices that broke the rules, alchemic or otherwise.  The manner of defiance never mattered.  And the secrets of flame alchemy were finally within his grasp. 

 “It’s enough just to be around you, Miss Hawkeye,” he said through uneven breaths, breaking the brittle silence.  “But if I had one shot, I’d make it count.”


	6. Not If, When

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome (and, again, hopefully) welcome back!
> 
> I won't bore you with minutia today. I'm about as happy with this chapter as I can be, which does not mean I'm completely satisfied. However, with wedding season fast approaching, I will soon be knee deep in bobby pins, bridesmaid dresses, and uncomfortable (but flattering) footwear. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining. (Maybe just a little.) I love weddings! But they do tend to be time sucks. I don't anticipate having much time for writing between all the "I dos."
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, constructive criticism, bookmarks and subscriptions are GREATLY appreciated. Please let me know what I'm doing right, what I can do better and how you feel about it. It's the only way we grow. :)

December 1903, Hawkeye Manor

The trip back to Hawkeye Manor was shorter than Roy remembered.  Hours had quickly turned to minutes, and he was no closer to resolving his dilemma.  It was impossible to think about Riza without remembering the kiss that never should have happened.

But it had happened.  At least, Roy was reasonably confident it actually happened.  Afterward, he expected that his relationship with Riza would change.  He expected that she would want to talk about it.  Women always wanted to talk about it.  At the very least, she’d be angry at him.  She had every right to be cross.

But morning came, and Miss Hawkeye simply smiled at Mr. Mustang across the kitchen table, offering him a cup of coffee and a slice of toast.  She was civilized and friendly.  Business as usual.  It was the best outcome Roy could have hoped for, and for some reason, that fact tore him up inside.

Roy once thought he was good at keeping secrets, being able to know something and never tell another soul.  He soon realized he was a novice compared to Riza.  _Don’t try to understand women_ , Madame Christmas once told him.  _The more you try, the stupider you become_.  No truer words were ever spoken.

Roy’s journey ended, and he was received at Hawkeye Manor with the usual fanfare:  none whatsoever.  He let himself in the drafty house and went directly to the study after dropping off his bags.  Master Hawkeye simply looked up from his book, gave Roy an approving nod and instructed him to reread Alchemic Transmutations of Water by Tuesday afternoon.  _Great_ , Roy thought, _I’m here to learn flame alchemy, and he tells me to study water._

Next, Mr. Mustang went in search of the other Hawkeye.  Unsurprisingly, he found her in the overgrown field behind Hawkeye Manor, hitting the bull’s eye of a target with her trusty 20 gauge shotgun.  _Right where I left her_ , he thought ruefully.  Riza was such a creature of habit.  The rabbits always seemed to know she was coming, even if their furry fate was sealed.

“Do you forgive me?” Roy asked bluntly, bypassing his usual greeting.  Miss Hawkeye was not one for arbitrary pleasantries, especially before a hunt.

Riza looked up at him quickly, and to Roy’s amazement, she smiled.

“I haven’t shot you,” she said with a wry smile.  But her sardonic expression softened as she crossed the tall grass.  Her short blond hair caught the sunlight.  Riza reached for Roy’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.  “Welcome home.  Now help me catch our dinner.”

Roy‘s skin tingled where their hands met. If the memory of Miss Hawkeye conflicted him, the real deal plucked at his heartstrings like never before.  In every way that mattered, he’d never be truly at home without Riza Hawkeye.

* * *

 Like the journey from Central City, the next two days passed quickly.  Roy could feel complacency settling in his bones, but little things began to test his patience like never before.  His room, for example.  Even after four years, it was lonely, lifeless and drafty.  And Master Hawkeye himself.  He’d lectured about water for the past two days, withholding any information about the combustion triangle of fire alchemy.

“Useless,” Roy growled under his breath.

He brought his fist down hard on the desk.  The sound echoed in the empty dormitory, and his notes fell to the floor in a flurry of black and white.  It didn’t matter.  Mr. Mustang would never need them.  The answer was clear, and Roy had known it since the words tumbled from old man Grumman’s slanted jaw.  Roy stood up so fast that his chair fell back, but he didn’t bother to pick it up.

There was no turning back.

* * *

 The days were short during the winter, and what a day it’d been.  Roy smirked; he felt unburdened for the first time in ages.  _I’ll miss these sunsets_ , Roy thought as he leaned against a white fence post at the edge of Berthold Hawkeye’s property line.  His former master watched him through the window, likely intrigued by Roy’s continued presence, but unable to do anything about it. 

 _Pacifism_ , he mused, _has its advantages._

Roy impatiently waited for Miss Hawkeye to make her way past the church and down the dirt road.  He turned up the collar of his winter coat, but the cold soaked through him along with the implications of his decision.  When Roy finally saw her in the distance, he set off, suitcase in hand.  He refused to give Berthold the satisfaction of witnessing their conversation.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Mustang?” Riza asked, jogging to meet him halfway.  Her cheeks flushed, and her expression held genuine concern.  True to form, her sharp eyes had noticed the suitcase, even from far away.

“Just had a little chat with your father,” Roy responded as cavalier as possible.  He wouldn’t admit that some of that conversation had cut to the quick.  “And I’m leaving.”

Riza’s expression shifted from concern to disbelief.   “Let me talk to him.  Whatever happened, I’ll get him to see reason.”

“It’s my choice, Riza,” Roy said.  Her first name felt foreign on his lips.  “I’m joining the military.  Well, I will after I graduate from the academy... Come with me.”

The query hung in the air for a minute, maybe more.  The world was silent and still, burdened by the implications of the question.  He hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, but there it was.  Roy was taken aback by his sincerity.  Yes, he wanted to take her away, just like she’d asked him to that night in the oak tree. 

“You know, better than anyone, that’s he’s a ridiculous man,” Roy added.  “God knows how long you’ve catered to his outrageous demands, cleaned his home, cooked his meals, literally put food on the table when he’s too self-righteous to pick up a firearm…”

“Enough,” Riza interjected.  “I know the kind of man my father is.  But he’s still my father, and I choose to care for him.  If I leave, he’ll have no one.”

Miss Hawkeye paused, running her fingers through her hair.  She took a breath and continued. “I’m not even finished with school yet.  What would I do?  Run off to the military with you?”

True, he hadn’t worked through the details, but years of transmutations studies forced him to think on his feet.

“You don’t have to join the military.  Stay with your grandfather.  Finish your education,” Roy pleaded.  “Just, come with me.  Leave this place.  General Grumman’s a kind man, and he will understand.  He will help.”

“I don’t know my grandfather as you do,” Riza replied bitterly.  That wound was still fresh.  “Besides my father’s here.”

The conversation was going in circles as it often did when Miss Hawkeye made up her mind about something.  She had chosen to stay.  Roy abandoned his suitcase and stepped toward, closing the gap between their bodies.  He reached for the crook of her arms.

All that separated Roy and Riza were their worn winter coats.  Riza settled in Roy’s arms, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.  She fit perfectly.

“Please,” Roy nearly begged.  “I’m tired of waiting.  There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

“Nothing?” Riza echoed into the collar of his jacket.  Without looking at her, Roy knew she was sadly smirking. 

It wasn’t a question as much as an observation, and Roy regretted that he’d shown more of his hand than he had meant to.  Nevertheless, his doubts about the kiss were resolved.  It meant something to her.  But was it enough for him?  Was it enough to languish in this dead-end town waiting for knowledge that may not come?

No.  It wasn’t enough, and no matter what he said, they both knew Mr. Mustang’s answer.

“I can’t stay just for that,” Roy said truthfully as his voice caught in his throat.  “But you make it hard to leave.”

No more words passed between them as Roy and Riza embraced in the middle of the dirt path.  The pair lingered in their intimate pose.  Roy no longer cared if Berthold saw him, and he had half a mind to kiss her, plead and repeat until she yielded.  But Riza wasn’t one to be persuaded by such cheap tactics.  Her mind was made up.  No amount of argument or emotion would sway her resolve.

Mr. Mustang pressed a hard kiss to his companion’s forehead as he murmured a hollow farewell.  Roy picked up his suitcase and walked briskly down the dirt path, against the wind.  He did not turn around for a last look at Miss Hawkeye. 

Just like before, if he saw that she wanted him, it would be all over.  He’d grovel before her father for his apprenticeship, and he’d wait for her.  Roy Mustang would be a small town, second-rate alchemist if he stayed, however happy in his love life.  That small future wouldn’t do. 

He had to keep moving forward without reservation, regret or even the secrets of flame alchemy.

 _But I’ll be back_ , he vowed.  _I’ll show Master Hawkeye that I’m worthy of his flame alchemy, and I’ll come for her too._


	7. Her Father’s Messenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Chapter 7, we're flashing forward from the last chapter to the present. Chronologically, this is the continuation of the conversation from Chapter 3. I've spent more than my fair share of words setting up this reveal, giving the moment context and weight. I hope the effort pays off.
> 
> And confession... I originally intended on ending this story here, but I will likely write more. I'm also deviating from my original ending (against my better judgment). So... suggestions for future chapters or any feedback whatsoever is GREATLY appreciated!

December 1905, Hawkeye Manor

“I want to show you something.” 

Riza’s words were measured.   Her phrasing was concise.  Unsurprisingly, the young woman’s expression remained unreadable, ever the very picture of calm and collected.  In moments like these, Roy found it easier to reflect on what remained unspoken.

For example, Miss Hawkeye had not asked Mr. Mustang how else she’d changed.  Riza did not name her price or continue the interrogation.  Neither had she refused his indelicate request for the secrets of flame alchemy with her father barely cold in his grave. 

On the contrary, Riza clasped Roy’s hand and, with a gentle grasp, led him from the kitchen, up the dusty staircase toward Master Hawkeye’s study.  The alchemist’s footsteps fell into a natural rhythm with his counterparts, the click and clack of their feet borne by the old wooden floor.  They’d held hands before, often in fact, when Riza was more child than woman.  Nevertheless, the undertone of this simple contact felt new, decidedly intimate, not unlike the destination. 

The study meant something different to each occupant of Hawkeye Manor.  Whatever capacity for passion Berthold Hawkeye had possessed, he spent it in the confines of that room, worshiping large tomes and preserving his notes like holy relics.  For this reason, other apprentices had dreaded the study, likening it to a dragon’s lair. 

Riza had once compared it to a black hole, an all-consuming place where even time seemed to dawdle.  Roy never saw her enter the room for more than a few moments, only enough time to mitigate her father’s absentminded mess.  For Roy’s part, the study was a challenge, an unforgiving terrain that held promises of greatness if he could withstand the ever-changing tides of Master Hawkeye’s whims.

“If we go in there, things will change,” Riza said as she placed her free hand on the bronze doorknob.  Her tone was steady, and she faced the door with a determined look as if steeling herself to brave the void.  “I don’t know why I ended up with… my father’s research.  I’ll tell you what I think, but don’t ask for anymore.”

Roy could not pretend that he hadn’t fantasized about this scenario.  For the better part of the last three years, Riza had been his gold standard when it came to women, the measuring stick by which all others fell short.  But the reality bore a far more bitter fruit. 

The dark-haired alchemist remembered the way his master pleaded for Riza’s wellbeing with his dying breath.  He recalled Riza’s actions, her heartfelt graveside question, the bottle of brandy and such.  The dots did not connect in Roy’s mind.  His hand tensed in Riza’s, and Roy gently pulled back until she turned slightly, exposing the profile of her face.  Riza’s gaze remained downcast, and she deliberately avoided his eyes.

“You don’t have to do this,” Roy said instinctively.  The ambitious man inside of him damned his chivalrous consideration.  “I’m not just here for the research, Riza.  You have to know that.  Let’s go back downstairs.  We can talk about the research, everything else in the morning.”

“No, Roy. I’m fine,” Riza said in a hollow voice as she turned the doorknob.  The gears of old knob audibly ground against one another, producing an eerie metallic whine.  “Just promise me you won’t ask why.”

He should have insisted that she sleep on her decision.  Roy should have marched down the stairs and out the front door, retreating to the town’s inn for the night.  Instead, he agreed and followed Riza, his mind alight with anticipation and curiosity.  The secrets of flame alchemy were finally within his grasp.

The familiar scent of musty books and ash greeted Roy as he surveyed the humble surroundings, largely unchanged since his departure.  Familiar titles on old book spines jumped out at Roy as he scanned the cluttered shelves, searching for something unexpected.  The drab forest green walls swallowed what little light crept past the dense and dirty curtains.  Roy’s pulse raced as he watched Riza step out past the dingy sofa.

The young alchemist’s breath caught unpleasantly in his throat as he watched Riza.  However, she made no move to grab a book or unlock a secret compartment.  She gazed at the window; her back still turned to Roy.  Curiously, she drew her hands to the center of her chest.

“Father was angry when you left, but I don’t blame you for any of this.  I chose to help him.”  Roy could tell Riza’s hands were working, but her objective remained a mystery.  _Was she carrying the research with her at the funeral?_ He thought.

“Father told me to guard his secrets with my life, to only show them to a person I trusted, who would do something good with flame alchemy.”  If he didn’t know better, Roy would say she was unbuttoning her shirt.

“Stubborn.  He had to know it would be you.  But, I think, after all the things he said about the military, he couldn’t give this to you himself.  So, he made me his messenger… and his message.”

Roy opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but Riza’s actions silenced him.

In one fluid motion, several garments fell silently to the floor; she stood before Roy naked from the waist up.  The sight curbed his enthusiasm like a dose of cold water.  A large, ornate tattoo comprised of raised red lines marred Riza’s skin, from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back.  The mark was brutal, but not ugly; on the contrary, the overall shape, intersecting circles filled with delicate script and exotic sigils, accentuated the curve of Riza’s torso.

Roy had no doubt; the tattoo was the work of Berthold Hawkeye.  The coded transmutation circle was unmistakably in his master's articulate handwriting.  It smacked of his principles of precision and economy, designed to make the best use of the available space.  If the figure were within a book or on a canvas, it would have been a perfect marriage of art and science.  Yet, on Riza’s back, it was a curse, an albatross.

Roy was rooted to the spot by a million questions.  Nearly all of them contained the forbidden word: Why.  Guilt, anger, regret and remorse gathered on the tip of his tongue, threatening to burst forth, but Roy managed to swallow his emotions.

In the past, his master’s obsession with secrecy bordered on mania, but this taking, this violation crossed a sacred line.  In Roy’s mind, Berthold Hawkeye had abused the loyalty of his daughter.  He used the very flesh of his child to record his life’s work, casting her as the guardian of his most prized possession.  _It should have been the other way around_ , he thought ruefully.

Roy closed the gap between himself and Riza with surprising ease.  The only explanation for the sureness of his steps was the peculiar gravity that perpetually drew them together, no matter how long they’d been apart.  Riza trembled.  It could have been from the cold or the emotion of the day, but Roy knew better.  She trembled because she could feel his breath on her bare shoulder.

Transfixed, Roy removed his gloves and reached out to touch the salamander figure, but his fingertips stopped short, hovering millimeters above the lizard-like creature.  Riza told him that she had agreed to help her father, but knowing his former master, Roy doubted Berthold had told her everything before beginning his cruel work.  The thought made him shudder with rage, and Roy withdrew his hand.  He refused to touch Riza with ire coursing through his veins.  Whatever the tattoo was or wasn’t, it _was_ an indelible mark, part and parcel of Riza.

“Did it hurt?” Roy asked, knowing the answer.  His anger dissipated, replaced by concern.

“Yes,” Riza muttered, lips still pressed to her thumbs, arms shielding her breasts from exposure.

“I’m sorry,” Roy breathed as he slipped his hand around her waist.  The young alchemist closed his eyes and rested his forehead in the curve of her neck.  He covered Berthold’s sin with his body.


	8. To Feel and Touch and Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, I decided to continue this story despite deviating from the ending I originally envisioned. And after spending a while following Roy's POV (more or less), I was dying to get inside Riza's head, especially after she shows him her tattoo. While I will likely vacillate between both point of views for a couple chapters (gotta love the freedom of writing in 3rd person), the rest of this story will probably center around Riza and her decision to join the military. I owe a big thank you to Aeriedescent for the suggestion.

December 1905, Hawkeye Manor

Riza felt the pressure of Roy’s hands on her bare skin.  She bathed in the warmth of his body, sinking deep into his embrace.  For the first time in recent memory, her shoulders felt lighter, gratefully dependent on another person to carry the weight of her father’s secrets.

Looking back on the past few days life was a blur, a collection of unfocused still shots that were neither memorable nor important.  Truth be told, Riza allowed Roy to make most of the decisions regarding her father’s funeral.  The younger Hawkeye knew Berthold as well as anyone, which wasn’t saying much; however, she was certain he would not have cared about the ordinary trappings of a moving send-off. 

But what would he have said about this?  Roy Mustang’s arms encircled his daughter’s waist.  His body laced Riza with delicious heat.  Roy’s eyes took in the old man’s life’s work, previously denied him. 

Berthold would not have been pleased, to say the least.

And Riza had every right to push Roy away as the emotion of the day caught up with her, but she didn’t.  At that moment, Roy knew what had happened in his absence.  He knew about the loneliness of the past two years and her father’s dwindling will to live.  Tears, the flow of feelings she kept carefully guarded during the aftermath of Berthold’s death and his funeral, slid silently down her cheeks as she recalled the pain spent in this very room, the place where the first flame alchemist had imbued her flesh with the sordid details of his craft.

No, Riza didn’t push her childhood friend away.  On the contrary, she pivoted in Roy’s embrace and pressed her lips to his, hoping to recapture the delight she felt on that summer night.  But this kiss was decidedly different. 

When their lips first met over two years ago in the darkness of the old apprentice dormitory, their embrace was like a firework, all fleeting bright light and color, dangerous and short-lived.  However, this kiss was more like an ember; it was a small thing, barely alive.  Roy seemed hesitant at first, willing to let the fire die as Riza’s tears wet both their cheeks.  But despite the sad overtones of the moment and the sickly sweet hint of brandy on their breath, Riza’s need to connect prevailed.  She deepened the kiss, sliding her palms over the rough fabric of his overcoat.

Roy’s sense of decorum lapsed as Riza tightly grasped his lapels.  She drew him into her, each body threatening to swallow the other as his bare hands caressed the sides of her torso.  The young woman’s mouth moved desperately against her counterpart’s when she felt his fingertips withdraw carefully from one of the raised red lines of her tattoo.  Through this action, Roy sent a message that Riza received and approved of; her father’s blood-stained work had no part of this.

As Roy’s left hand firmly cupped Riza’s face, his right came to rest near the waistband of her skirt.  His thumbs traced circles on her yielding skin, applying delicious pressure along the straight line.  Riza’s composure waned under Roy’s deft ministrations, and the stymied sentiments occasioned by Berthold Hawkeye’s death burst forth in a peculiar outpouring of passion.  She needed to _feel_ and _touch_ and _taste_ and... 

She _wanted_ Roy.  Not as a childhood friend or a platonic companion.  Riza craved him, body and soul, as lovers do.  She wanted, perhaps needed, to _feel_ and _touch_ and _taste_ as lovers would.

Intimacy, physical or emotional, familial or carnal, was a stranger in Hawkeye Manor.  Or perhaps, Riza imagined, it was a specter that presided over nonexistent dinner parties in the derelict dining room.  Once upon a time (or so she was told), her father and mother had felt and touched and tasted, as lovers did, within these very walls.  Once, during a time obscured now by darkness and dust, the professor and his young wife were content, happy enough to make room for a child. 

But when Elizabeth Hawkeye departed, she took the light with her.  Her darling daughter became little more than window dressing for a supposedly functioning widower.  Since the age of 7, Riza knew the meaning behind the dark look in her father’s eyes.  But she was too much.  Too much like him to fill the void left by Elizabeth.  Too much like her mother to connect with Berthold on an academic level.

And then came Roy Mustang, the boy who listened and laughed and stayed.  Slowly, he brought gray into Riza’s world of black and white.  Next, blue and yellow and, finally  _red_.  Up to this point, Mr. Mustang had colored her small world in every other way.  Would it be so wrong for Roy to finish what he started? Or had she started it?  Riza didn’t know anymore.  Caught in the moment, pressed against him, she couldn’t be bothered to care.  

 Silently, albeit with certainty, Riza dared the young alchemist’s darker side to go further.  Her hands grasped harder; her tongue delved deeper as a frustrated moan escaped her throat.  Roy shuffled his overcoat from his shoulders.  His hands left Riza’s body to catch the dense material which slid down his arms.  She smiled, wrapping her toned arms around his neck and parting her legs against Roy’s thigh.

Stiff material slipped over Riza’s shoulders.  The weighted fabric of Roy’s overcoat fell down her back, dragging the floor.  In one abrupt motion, Roy untangled his lips from hers.  Gently, he placed his left hand on her right shoulder, firmly holding the tentative distance.  The young alchemist’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession as his right hand fastened the overcoat across Riza.

Within seconds, Riza’s composure returned as she became vaguely aware of her state:  half-naked, red lips and cheeks wet from tears.  She blushed crimson as her desire fell by the wayside and clasped her hand to her mouth.  The young woman’s eyes went wide with panic, acutely aware of her inexperience in such matters.

“I shouldn’t have,” Roy said breathlessly as he visibly straightened his body.  Riza scoffed and took a step back, moving away from the pressure of his left hand on her shoulder.

“You didn’t, _Mr. Mustang_.  I did,” she replied tersely, almost offended by the loss of his lips.  Her tears tasted bitter.  “I thought you wanted _it_.”  The last word she spoke hung heavy between the pair, laced with innuendo.  Riza could hardly recognize her voice.

“I do,” Roy said quickly, almost desperate to get his point across.  “I want it, Riza.  _All_ of it.”  He paused, eyes darting down her body, almost involuntarily.  Riza blushed under Roy’s gaze again before their eyes met.  “But not like this.”

Autopilot and muscle memory saw her through the evening.  Roy guided her through the house to her bedroom, making comments about what had and hadn’t changed to fill the emptiness.  In the confines of her room, the only one she’d ever known, Riza sat on her bed facing the window, contemplating the setting sun.  Books and poems often compared the death of a loved one to a sunset, but in her limited experience, the metaphor didn’t ring true.

Even through her filthy window, the orange rays of the setting sun captivated her unwavering eyes, still brimming with tears.  The magenta sky bathed the dormant landscape in warmth, pumping life, not death in the cracks left by the dry winter season.  Berthold took more than he gave in his final day, and his departure had not been a brilliant release.  He’d lingered and languished against the ever-encroaching darkness, refusing to concede or discard the disappointment that had come to define him in his later years.

It was still too early for bed, even by the standards of Hawkeye Manor.  All the same, Roy handed Riza a sleeveless nightshift.  She twisted the threadbare fabric around her fingers, hoping he hadn’t noticed how patched and frayed the white material had become.  The alchemist turned away as she let his overcoat fall from her shoulder.  Riza slipped the nightgown over her head and quickly discarded her skirt in a rumpled heap on the floor.  The scarlet lines of the coded transmutation circle remained visible through the flimsy white cloth.

Roy averted his eyes through the whole affair, only glancing over his shoulder to bid Riza goodnight and grab his coat.  As he moved toward the door, her stomach lurched.   The house was too big and the night was too dark to be alone.  Without thinking, Riza found herself clutching Roy’s sleeve, and the contradictory expression that crossed his face took the breath from her body. 

She’d caught a glimpse of this look only twice during their years together.  The first time, he’d been silhouetted in moonlight, right after she’d goaded him into kissing her silly.  Try though she had, Riza did not regret her provocation.  The second time had occurred on a cold winter’s day, not unlike that very afternoon, when he’d left for the military academy suitcase in hand.  She’d often wondered what her life would have been like if she’d left with him as he’d proposed. 

Before, the full force of this fleeting look had been lost on her.  Nevertheless, when Riza saw Roy’s expression straight on, the meaning, paradoxical though it was, left no room for ambiguity.  It said “we shouldn’t” but “tempt me.”

Riza did neither. As was her way, she chose a third option.  It was a decision that cast the childhood friends as something more family, but just shy of lovers.

“Stay with me,” she said, grabbing a book from her bedside table and offering it to him.  “Just until I go to sleep.  I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I can do that,” Roy replied with a relieved smile. 

His eyes grew soft as he accepted the book and slid beside her on the bed.  Even as the small frame groaned under their collective weight, Riza relaxed against the pillows.  Gratefully, she rested her head against Roy’s shoulder as he thumbed through the pages, some dog-eared and tattered from regular wear and tear.  They both knew the text well.

“The Legend of Xerxes,” he recited, almost from memory.  “Xerxes was a peaceful desert society.  It existed east of modern day Amestris and was home to millions of people…”

The deep timbre of Roy’s voice reverberated through the small room, and Riza allowed herself the luxury of feeling at ease for the first time in a long time.  Her eyes closed and her breathing slowed as the cadence of Roy’s voice wrapped her in nostalgic memories.  When the former apprentice glanced over at his master’s daughter, she was fast asleep. 

Roy softly shuffled the pages of the book in his hands until he reached the front cover.  Just as he thought, the inscription read “Happy 10th birthday.  Your friend, Roy Mustang.”  The alchemist pressed the book closed and let his head fall back against Riza’s headboard.  If anyone deserved a fairytale ending, it was Riza Hawkeye.  It was so easy to forget she was only 16.


	9. salve spiritus ignis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! So, like I said before, April has me in its busy clutches. Not enough hours in a day and all that. Yes, this is another flashback chapter, but it's with Riza. Roy has gotten more than his fair share of flashbacks already, and I really wanted to skim the surface of the infamous tattooing process without getting too deep. I've read so many wonderful fics dedicated to this topic, and I sincerely hope my take added something new (and didn't unintentionally steal anything).
> 
> As always, feedback is fantastic! Bookmarks, subscriptions, kudos, comments (especially comments) and suggestions for future chapters are GREATLY appreciated. I mean smile in the never-ending line at the post office kind of appreciated.

March 15, 1904, Hawkeye Manor

Riza stared blankly at her father’s notepad, considering the figure sketched in black and white.  Despite his practical exterior, Berthold Hawkeye was a heavy handed man with a flair for the dramatic.  He wrote slowly, placing gravitas on each word he authored.  The marks left in the wake of his pen were always dark and thick.  If Riza flipped the page of his notepad, she was sure she’d see the imprint of his earlier drabbles and drafts.  But her eyes remained transfixed on the coded transmutation circle, the result of his lifelong pursuit of knowledge, the _thing_ he wanted to tattoo on her back.

Circles, serpents, the sun and a salamander.  It was a bold symphony of symbols that concealed lethal secrets, the kind that could make a person or break a nation.  Perhaps both. The 14-year-old understood enough to know its comprehension was beyond her field of expertise.  Quite literally, it was all Latin to the younger Hawkeye.  No matter how hard she tried, Riza could only decipher the odd word or phrase.  A small portion of the second line from the top caught her eye. 

 _salve spiritus ignis_.  In English, greetings spirit of fire.  Was that it?  Had the spirit of fire finally consumed all of her father’s humanity?  Had he any compassion, he would not have asked this of his only child.

Berthold hesitantly placed an ink-stained hand over his daughter’s clean skin.  As he stroked his thumb against her wrist, Riza glanced at the awkward connection, unable to recall the last time her father had purposefully touched her with tenderness.  He told her in hushed tones that she could choose the color.  A small concession for her part in the grand scheme of things.

“Teenage girls like that sort of thing, I suppose,” he said categorically.

Riza absentmindedly nodded as she stared at a fresh smudge of ink near her thumb.  Before she knew about the tattoo, she had agreed to safeguard his research until someone worthy came along.  Riza had promised Berthold so readily, with such fervor, that she could withstand any request.  What would her father think if she reconsidered?  Was it too late to wash her hands of flame alchemy?  They were already dirty from her contact with Berthold.

And her father, well, he was heavy handed.

“Lie down,” Berthold directed, gesturing to an old cot in the middle of his study.  “I’ll do this piecemeal over the next few months, starting with the text at top.  Nothing too important in the salutation, I think, in case you squirm.”

In Riza’s mind, events had progressed past the point of return.  Like a marionette, she could do nothing except comply, bend her will to her father’s wishes.  She quietly discarded her garments as instructed and pressed her stomach to the cold, stiff sheets of the cot.  Riza remained faced down, resting her forehead on her forearm.  _Don’t squirm_ , she cautioned herself.  Suddenly, every inch of the young woman itched.

Though her skin crawled, Riza was in no position to scratch as the aging alchemist pressed a red pen to her flesh.  While stenciling the Latin of the upper section just below the nape of his daughter’s neck, Berthold muttered half formed thoughts.  It had to start that high, he explained offhandedly.  She could always wear a turtleneck. 

“Have you decided on a color?” he asked Riza.  With the stencil complete, Berthold made his way to a tray of instruments.  “I have black, blue and red on hand.  I could make purple…”

“Red,” Riza interjected.  If this was how Berthold wanted to stab his daughter in the back, the least he could do was make it resemble the bleeding wound it was.

“Not what I expected, but red it is.”

Riza heard the machine stir to life through the pounding sound of blood coursing through her body.  Through deep breaths, she willed herself to behave passively as anticipation and disbelief got the better of her senses.   _Don’t squirm_ , Riza inwardly pleaded.  _Whatever you do, don’t squirm._

“You are lucky in a way,” Berthold said just before he pressed the needle to Riza’s pristine flesh.  “You get to choose who’s worthy my flame alchemy.  Only show this to an alchemist you trust completely, who will use their power for the betterment of others.”

The tip of the machine connected with Riza’s skin.  It hurt like hell.  As expected, Berthold was heavy handed.


	10. Their Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see. Are you guys still here? I've noticed a bit of a lull in the fandom. 
> 
> Promise I haven't forgotten about this one. It's my Royai passion project, but I have been dabbling with fics in other fandoms. I gotta say though, readers in FMA land are the best! You guys left some awesome feedback on the last chapter or two. I'm so grateful.
> 
> This chapter is a little slower, and, hopefully, a little lighter. Things have been getting pretty dark in this tale, and I felt that I needed to reel it back a bit. We're back in "present day" so to speak. No flashbacks in this one! And soon(ish) we'll be moving on from Hawkeye Manor and into the new year! Personally, I can't wait, but I need to tie up some loose ends there.

December 1905, Hawkeye Manor

If Roy’s time at the academy had taught him anything, it was that unfortunate predicaments seemed better in the morning.  Maybe, it was the dawn of a new day, all symbolic and literal implications in tow.  Even the dust-darkened corners of Riza’s room seemed happier when bathed in fresh morning light.

Perhaps, a full eight hours of shut-eye did the trick.  Sleep was a revisionist in the worst of times; it stitched Roy’s stray thoughts together, helping the former cadet view any situation as part of a larger narrative.  Although Roy reluctantly admitted to himself, his newfound enthusiasm was probably his former bunkmate’s fault.  Despite Roy’s best efforts, Maes Hughes, a morning person through and through, had simply rubbed off on him. 

Of course, Roy hadn’t been able to leave Riza’s side that night.  She’d slept so peacefully nestled in his embrace.  It would have been a sin to wake her prematurely, asking the young woman to face her dreary reality without necessity.  For two years Riza lived an ugly truth without so much as a sympathetic ear.  Roy bitterly regretted his own indolence in that regard.   Yet, in the twilight moments between dreams and reality, he was able to forget about the sprawling red lines that marred Riza’s back, if only temporarily.

One silver-lining remained in sharp focus. Berthold Hawkeye’s tale was at its close.  The dead man’s hand could no longer control Riza’s future as it had strangled her past.  Roy believed he could make it right, atone for his absence and bargain away his regrets.  All he had to do was carve out a slice of happiness for Miss Hawkeye, Riza.

And when Roy crossed the threshold of the kitchen clutching four freshly laid eggs, there she was.  A lovely mop of blond hair wrapped up in a bathrobe greeted him.  She wore a grin that stretched the corners of her mouth.  Roy marveled at Riza’s resilience.  Knee deep in debt with only a dilapidated house to her name, she could still find it within herself to be happy. 

“Scrambled or sunny side up?” Roy called over his shoulder as he placed a well-worn frying pan on the stove.  He rummaged through the refrigerator for a few basic ingredients.  “Don’t ask for poached.  I only got four eggs this morning, and if I try that, all you’ll end up with is a lot of hot eggy water.”

Riza chuckled in response from her perch at the kitchen table.  Her elbows rested comfortably against the rustic wood buffered by the thick sleeves of her peach robe.  She took a sip of coffee from the warm mug pressed between her calloused hands.

“Scrambled,” she answered with a faint country lilt, a pleasant accent that Roy knew she strived to keep in check.  “I thought you went to the military academy, not cooking school.”

“Man cannot live on regulation lunches alone,” Roy pronounced in a dignified fashion.  He cracked all four eggs in a mixing bowl and whisked in a dash of milk.  The smell of sizzling butter filled the kitchen.  “My bunkmate liked to eat out in Central City.  He dragged me along with him. Not that I didn’t miss your cooking.”

“Flatterer,” Riza jested.  “I’m sure you _longed_ for buckshot stew.”

“Not as much as your spring vegetable with more vegetables casserole,” Roy retorted as he shuffled the eggs around the pan.

“We couldn’t afford to let them go bad,” Riza said defensibly.  “I got so mad when you called it rabbit food.  But, you were probably right.”

“You did the best you could,” Roy added as he plated the eggs with a dash of salt and pepper.  He knew better than most that such creature comforts were to be used sparingly in Hawkeye Manor.

“It’s a miracle we all didn’t end up with lead poisoning,” she sighed, surveying the small plate Roy set before her.

“Toast?” he asked, handing her a fork.

“Not sure we have any,” Riza responded.  “I hadn’t thought past yesterday, his funeral and… when we came back after.”

A beat passed.  Roy slid into the chair opposite Riza and considered the implications of her response.  She had nowhere to go.  No plans.  No future other than seeing him in receipt of her father’s secrets.

Roy remembered his master’s final moments.

_“Look after… my daughter… she in possession… of my research.”  Master Hawkeye chocked out his last demand with what little breath was left in his tired body.  Berthold’s withered figure convulsed in a heap on the floor and blood trickled idly from the corner of his slack mouth.  The master alchemist’s eyes widened unnervingly in the face of death, the great equalizer.  “Look after her.”_

 “When are you due back at school?” he asked.

“I dropped out last spring,” Riza said.  She ate in deliberately, careful not to meet his eyes.  “To take care of father.”

“I see,” Roy responded with guarded disappointment.  “Then I guess we should head into town after this, get some groceries and supplies.  I’ll cover everything if you let me stay here for a week or two.”

“That would make sense,” Riza responded with a small smile as she shuffled the last of the eggs into her mouth.  “I’ll run over to Ms. Widget’s house and call a cab after I get dressed.”

“No need,” Roy chirped with a roguish grin.  His eyes flashed eagerly.  “You’re not the only one with a few surprises up their sleeve.”

* * *

 Riza knew next to nothing about cars, but she surmised that Roy had a nice one.  The slick black hood glinted in the morning light, accented by shiny metal vents and exhausts.  The dark surface sloped gracefully over the cab, and the lighter leather interior spoke a foreign language of luxury.  Roy opened the passenger door for Riza and ushered her inside in grand fashion.  Clad in his civvies of choice, he looked every bit the gentile city slicker that she imagined he’d become during his time at the academy. 

By comparison, Riza felt hopelessly underdressed.  Remembering a stubborn stain or two on her white shirt, she clutched her jean jacket closed, and the rough fabric pulled uncomfortably across her chest.  Riza chanced a glance at her boots and spied several scuff mark peeking out from the hem of her floral skirt.  Not for the first time, she was grateful for the unseasonably warm winter weather.  Riza doubted that her winter coat still fit.

“Ready?” Roy asked excitedly as he leaned over the steering wheel and turned the key.  The goliath of iron, steel and glass roared to life, shaking the dust from the wooden beams of Ms. Widget’s barn.  It settled into a steady purr as Roy leaned back with the giddy countenance of a schoolboy.  Riza gripped the underside of the seat in surprise and laughed for the first time in a long time.

“Where did you… How did you…”

“Madame Christmas gave it to me as an early graduation present.  I asked Ms. Widget if I could park it here while I was visiting.  Didn’t know how your father would react to this sort of thing.”  Roy pressed the clutch and shifted the car into reverse.  He backed how of the barn cautiously.  “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Riza replied.  She bristled ever-so-slightly at the mention of Roy’s aunt.  The young alchemist shifted into first and started toward the worn dirt road.  Riza braced herself as the car lurched forward.    “I’ve always wondered.  Why do you call her that?  Madame Christmas?”

“She values her privacy,” Roy shrugged, “and I suppose she thought it would be best if we kept our family ties a secret, considering the type of business she runs.  She’s good at keeping secrets.  Almost as good as you.”

Riza folded her arms across her chest protectively.  She’d known her father’s research would come up, but Riza couldn’t help falling into predictable patterns with Roy.  There was something safe about the peculiar space their relationship occupied, something unique and undefined.  The young woman chastised her more optimistic side.  If not for the tattoo, Roy would probably be long gone by now.

“You could have written me, you know.  I would have come,” Roy added, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended.  “I came when you said he was sick and asking for me.  If I’d known, I would have been here.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Riza shrugged dismissively.  “And after it started, I didn’t know what to say.  So, I said nothing, let it happen.”

Roy’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.  The car picked up speed, and he shifted into second gear.  “Do you still want me to have them, your secrets?”

“Do you still want to make a difference, make this country a better place?”  Riza’s throat felt tight as she spoke, but she knew what Roy’s answer would be.  The man beside her was more mature and collected, but his optimistic demeanor had not been tempered by the rigors of the academy.  Roy was the same boy who climbed trees with her in the early evening and told stories of far off places to placate young Riza’s enthusiastic imagination.  In all the time she’d known him, he had not made a promise he couldn’t keep.

“I do,” Roy responded in earnest.  His answer sounded more like a vow than a simple response.

“Then yes.  I want you to take them.”

A smile flashed across Roy’s lips, but he kept his eyes on the road in front of him.  “Thank you,” he said with a curt nod, but as if that was not enough to cement his oath, he reached for Riza’s hand.  She grasped it gently.  The air around them seemed to crackle heavily, laden with purpose, duty and all the unspoken facets of their peculiar bond.  And while the conversation wound its way back around to Riza’s plans for the future, her options regarding school and eventual work, she knew she would follow Roy as long as she lived.


	11. Crack the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I am floored by the positive feedback I received on my last chapter. You guys give me life and a reason to keep writing when I'm supposed to be doing laundry! Seriously though, I can't say thank you enough for all the encouragement. I read every comment and consider every opinion! :D
> 
> So... this chapter. Again, I'm trying to keep it light and move the story forward, out of Hawkeye Manor. No flashbacks here, but I decided to bring in an original character to keep the third person narrative entertaining. There's also a little science concerning Roy's flame alchemy. I got my facts from this YouTube video: [Sage's Rain: FMA Brotherhood - Understanding Roy Mustang's Flame Alchemy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qaeeV8pOm3A)
> 
> As I have said and will continue to say, kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions and especially comments give me life!

January 1906, The Widget Estate

Theodora Widget prided herself on discretion and poise.  Being too well-bred for the mundane humdrum of work, she retired to the affordable Amestrian countryside in pursuit of relaxation and leisure after General Widget’s untimely death.  Well, as much leisure as 150,000 cenz a month could muster.  Regretfully, the funds in the departed general’s pension were somewhat limited.

Of course, the grieving widow occupied herself as best she could with bridge, gardening and the company of like-minded women of good standing.  It was natural and downright healthy to entertain a certain measure of gossip from time to time within the limited circle of her social equals.  And if one was going to listen to gossip, it was only polite to participate in the spirit of neighborly bonding.

However, Theodora’s closest neighbors, the Hawkeyes, never seemed to do anything of interest, other than dismissing apprentice alchemy students and setting bonfires in the dead of night.  Strange, somewhat short, albeit intense blazes that sent ash raining down on her azaleas in the early to mid Spring, but bonfires nonetheless.  Regretfully, the ladies of the widow Widget’s inner circle shrugged at this tidbit of information. 

The group’s consensus was decidedly unanimous, and Theodora’s tattle failed to reveal anything new.  The former Professor Hawkeye had been a funny one since he moved to the country with his young wife, Elizabeth.  After the poor girl’s death, the man became obstinate and secretive to the point of reclusion.   Certainly, not the kind of qualities one wanted in a second husband or a fun fling. 

The genteel lady thought it best to steer clear.  Though, she allowed the poor man’s child to make calls on her telephone every blue moon.  Not that her kindness ever paid any dividends.  The most thrilling thing that happened was that a former student, a Mr. Mustard or something, came calling right before Berthold died.  The young military officer parked his lovely car in her unused barn while he helped with the arrangements.  Theodora briefly considered attending the funeral, but alas, black never did her complexion any favors.

A week passed with neither hide nor hair of Berthold’s daughter or the striking if vaguely foreign, military man.  Theodora assumed that the strapping Mr. Mustard had whisked the poor thing away to the competent care of some distant relation.  No doubt, the house, a dilapidated eyesore, would be sold or (better yet) demolished in due course.  Life at the Widget Estate continued into the New Year as it had for the past fifteen sun cycles.  The aggrieved widow timetabled her quiet days in sections of socializing, solitaire and leisurely walks in her dormant rose garden, dedicated (thorns and all) to the memory of her dearly departed husband.

But, on the afternoon of January 5, 1906, at about 5 p.m., something interesting finally happened.  When asked later to describe the incident the widow Widget grasped her chest and told her captive audience that she was minding her own business, relaxing by the fire when she felt a tremor and heard a sickening crack.  Her poor teacup, a family heirloom, in fact, stirred nosily in its saucer and smashed against on the stone hearth of her fireplace.  She raced to the window to see an ominous cloud of smoke rising over the top of Hawkeye Manor.  Right away, after she telephoned Mrs. Greyhound (a friend who lived ten miles away) to inquire if she had also heard the explosion, Theodora Widget called the authorities.

* * *

 January 5, 1906, 4:58 p.m., Hawkeye Manor

Everything was starting to make sense, but only just.  And really, Roy thought he deserved some sort of award for the progress he’d managed to make.  Studying encrypted alchemy research was hard enough.  Studying alchemy from the bare back of a beautiful, half-naked woman was taxing in the worst kind of way.  For the first and only time in Roy’s life, he was grateful for Hawkeye Manor’s lack of hot water.

The young alchemist pulled on an ignition glove, _his_ ignition glove and stared at the truncated transmutation circle stitched in red.  From the handful of times Roy had witnessed his master use flame alchemy, he knew that he was supposed to snap, creating friction and, thus, a spark.  But nerves got the better of him, and Roy took a shortcut.  With his left hand, he picked up the lighter and flicked his thumb down the metal wheel.  A smirk crossed his lips as he observed a small flame.

It was ironic, perhaps purposefully misleading, that Berthold had dubbed his craft flame alchemy.  As best Roy could tell, no magic symbols strung together in a perfect circle could generate the elegant simplicity of fire with the efficiency of a single snap.  Therefore, flame alchemy was not an endeavor of creation; it was an act of control.

Roy took aim at an old scarecrow about 20 feet away, holding the flickering flame of the lighter just in front of his glove-clad hand.  The young man closed his eyes in mindful meditation.  If his theory was correct, the transmutation circle would allow him to manipulate the concentration of oxygen in the air, raising the density until his efforts fanned the small fire into a frenzy of heat and light.

He exhaled with quivering breath and performed the transmutation.

There was always a rush associated with alchemy, a feeling that only another alchemist could appreciate.  Roy’s world buzzed as he reached into a familiar breach beyond himself, a void where the physical and mental vied against one another to create something new from the sum of the same parts.  But what Roy brought back with him felt like more than a simple rearrangement of gases in the atmosphere.  As the white-hot flame billowed from the fount of the lighter, Roy’s mouth cracked into a wide grin, and he understood the salutation sent by way of Riza’s skin.

 _salve spiritus ignis_.  Greetings spirit of fire. 

An alchemist that played with fire was not an elemental God of olde.  He was a tamer, a man who took chances with his flesh to entice and break the inherently uncontainable to his own will, if only momentarily.  Therefore, a flame alchemist was not, in fact, a force of nature.  He was a spirit, a wielder of tentative ego who straddled the veil between this world and the great beyond with precarious footing.

Then, Roy slipped.                

His eyes grew wide as he realized how poor a conductor air truly was, how unstable the pathway between himself and the scarecrow became and how a single spark (as opposed to a sustained flame) was all that was required.  A violent force pushed Roy’s body backward, accompanied by a sharp sound that cracked the tranquil evening sky.  With muted senses and a muddled train of thought, Roy gathered his composure, willing his torso upright and his eyes open.

“Fuck.”

 The smell reminded Roy a campfire, natural but chokingly sweet.  The alchemist’s eyes darted from one end of the backyard to the other.  The lithe scarecrow and a significant portion of the backyard picket fence were utterly devastated, resting in a smoldering heap.  Roy feared for the well-being of the manor’s chickens, but pain demanded his attention.  His left hand throbbed unpleasantly.

“Oh my God, Roy!”

Riza appeared in his field of vision.  Before the young military officer could protest the young woman’s assistance, she hoisted him to a standing position.  Roy felt her accelerated pulse as the two moved together, away from the wreckage and toward the house.  He coughed to clear his lungs glancing back at ground zero.   He was relieved that the blast hadn’t taken out the whole backyard, only half.

“I’m fine, Riza.  Things just got a little out of hand.”  Still breathing heavily, Roy slumped down to rest on the backyard steps, leading to the kitchen.  Riza surveyed her companion with a small smile.  Apart from a few odd burns, he wasn’t seriously harmed.  “Less hydrogen next time, I think.”

“You think?” she scoffed.  “What the hell, Roy?  Were you trying to burn my house down?”  Riza’s tone remained light with no small amount of relief.

“Come to think of it, that would be easier than asking you to move in with me?” Roy half-jokingly quipped.

"Haha," Riza said dryly.  She straightened up from her crouched position.  “Why didn’t you tell me that you were actually trying to perform the transmutation?  I thought you were still studying the practical aspects.”

“I am still studying,” Roy said defensively.  “I just hit a wall.  Felt like I should get some experience under my belt to better understand the theory.”

“Have you had enough _experience_ then?” Riza retorted with exasperation as she surveyed the wreckage of her backyard.  Embers, a sure sign of flames, rose from the epicenter of the blast.  “I think there’s some fence still standing behind the coup if you’d like to finish the job.”  She sighed heavily, placing her hand on her hip.  “What a mess.”

“No kidding,” Roy said.  He stood up again, quickly pocketing the ignition glove.  Given half a chance, he was sure that Riza would confiscate it.  A nagging concern came to the forefront of his mind.  Surely, Hawkeye Manor was isolated, but their privacy was not absolute.  Despite the discipline’s explosive results, Riza’s secrets needed to remain as such.

“You don’t think anyone heard that, do you?”

 Riza took in a deep breath and released it with mounting frustration.

“Siphon some gasoline from your car and be back in five.  We’ve got some leaves to burn.”

To be continued...


	12. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Crosses fingers and hopes that her audience didn't think she'd given up on this one.*
> 
> Guess who's back? ME! I know. I'm sorry. 
> 
> So what had happened was... Royai Week, and yes, I realize that was like back in June. But you see, right after Royai Week, I got a bit bogged now in WIP land, and I finally got on tumblr. So I spent July finishing all my shorter WIPs and reblogging things that made me smile.
> 
> But now I'm back and ready to resume my updates-every-other-week-when-shit-isn't-hitting-the-fan schedule. And, drum roll please, I actually have a beta now! Pretty nifty huh? Now you guys don't have to suffer through all my typos. Ergo, thank you to [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos) for beta-ing.
> 
> As always, feedback is a beautiful thing. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me an ask, a prompt or even an anon nasty message if that floats your boat.

January 5, 1906, 7:04 p.m., Hawkeye Manor

It took the military police over an hour to find their way to Hawkeye Manor.  Riza watched them drive past her ramshackle house at least twice, kicking up dirt and dust as the blue-clad coppers rushed passed their intended destination.  To economize on such a fortuitous mistake, she and Roy used every spare second setting the scene just so.

They brought down the shabby sleeper sofa from her father’s study, the one he breathed his last in, and piled as many worthless possessions as they could gather on top of it before sloppily dousing it all in gasoline.  Riza selected a few props before Roy set it all on fire. Disappointed though he had been, Roy used the lighter at his host’s insistence.

But the coup de grace was the peach schnapps mixed with vodka.  Roy retrieved both bottles hidden underneath a friendly floorboard in the old apprentice dormitory, and they spent their last ten minutes of solitude passing a mixed bottle between them and watching.  Riza winced as the cloyingly sweet liquid slid down her throat. With conviction, she took another swig.

“Better slow down,” Roy cautioned.  He took the bottle from Riza as she swallowed hard.  “The sweetness masks the alcohol. It’ll sneak up on you if you’re not accustomed to drinking.  We just need to sell the story, not get you drunk.”

“Who says I’m not accustomed to drinking?”  Riza asked. She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her threadbare coat and suppressed a telling cough.

“That face you just made.”  Roy chuckled and set the bottle aside.  He secured the meager dressing wrapped around his left hand.

“Is it bad?” She stared idly at the bright white bandage, sorry she hadn’t inquired earlier.

“It was bound to happen,” he stated.  “Can’t call myself a flame alchemist if I haven’t been burnt, now can I?”

Riza returned his relaxed, bright smile as she felt the liquor pleasantly buzz between her ears.  Nevertheless, the fact that he hadn’t actually answered the question wasn’t lost on her.

Suddenly serious, she cocked her head to the side and parted her lips as if she had something to say.

Roy had already gotten a good look at her back, several at that, over the past week.  They spent long hours together in her father’s drafty study, and later when she realized how much she despised the room, the pair lounged idly by the fireplace in the den.  With a knotty blanket draped over her arms and curled around her torso, she sat on the brick hearth. Her bare back was warmed by both the fire and the boy as his lips muttered Latin phrases over the crackling blaze.

Their time together was running short.  Though Roy had not uttered a word about it, he was an officer in the Amestrian State Military with commitments separate and apart from the promises he made to his old master. What’s more, Roy knew the array well enough to attempt flame alchemy without setting the manor on fire.  The only real casualty was the fence, and Riza never liked that fence anyway.

“You could go home to practice and study,” Riza interjected into the silence.  “You’ve got what you came for, but you haven’t mentioned leaving.”

Roy flashed a debonair smirk, but his teasing tone didn’t reach his dark eyes.  “Well, I only made my first attempt today, and since you won’t allow me to copy your father’s research, I’ve got to stick close, don’t I?”

The young markswoman opened her mouth to point out that it had never taken Roy more than a week to master any subject her father had placed before him, but she was interrupted by a curt knock on the door.  A flurry of butterflies swelled in her stomach. The young blonde momentarily suppressed the lightheaded feeling incited by Roy’s peach schnapps vodka and met his eyes.

“You blame it all on me,” Riza stated soberly as she rose from easy comfort of the table. “Understand?  I’m a child who just lost her father so they should cut me some slack, but you’re a –”

“Yes, I know, Riza.  I’m an officer with a few skeletons in his closet and a secret to protect.  Just take your place in the backyard. I hope you can act as well as you lecture,” Roy added.  He stood quickly but paused short of leaving the room. The dark-haired officer peered over his shoulder at Riza, partially obstructed by the doorframe.  “But for the record, you’re not a child anymore. Not to me.”

* * *

Roy might have felt poorly about deceiving the military police, but he tapped into his skill set for lying with practiced ease.  Half truths suited his nature in the same way that bespoke leather gloves conformed to his dirty fingers. Before opening the front door, he drummed up a worried expression and flung the weather-worn oak panel open to reveal two nameless, clean-shaven men drenched in Amestrian royal blue.  Roy spoke before they could utter a single syllable.

“Thank goodness you got my call,” he exclaimed in a hurried voice.  “The grief has gotten to her, but maybe you can calm her down. Come, come quickly!”

The young alchemist turned and rushed down the long hall of Hawkeye Manor, passed the formal sitting room and dining room.  He took a hard left at the kitchen door and was pleased to hear the military police’s footsteps only a hairbreadth behind him.  Just as Riza had hoped, they hadn’t bothered to ask his name or position within the household.

The sound of a massive crackling fire and chemical-laden smoke greeted Roy’s senses as he turned the corner and crossed the checkerboard floor heading toward the screen door.  The sight before him was like nothing he could have expected. In spite of the winter temperatures, Riza had thrown off her coat and stood, clothes disheveled, with the bottle of vodka and peach schnapps in hand.  In her other hand, her fist clasped a ratty plaid shirt, one of Berthold’s favorites. With an enraged grunt that sounded more like a wounded animal than the generally calm and collected Riza Hawkeye, she cast the cloth into the bonfire, sending bright embers into the darkened night sky.

Roy didn’t have to feign the look of muddled fascination and fear that hung from his features.  It came to him honestly. At that moment, he thought her as magnificent as she was maniacal. So much so that he almost forgot his lines.  One of the officers stood slack jaw at the sight. The other spoke up with an air of amazement.

“A woman did this?  She must stop immediately!  She might hurt herself.”

Roy could have laughed.  She wasn’t just a woman. She was Riza Hawkeye, and she was about to pull the wool over his sexist eyes.

“That’s precisely why I called!  She just started burning all her father’s things,” Roy explained.  He decided to lay it on thick. “The man of the house died last week, left her alone.  I don’t think she could stand to be around all the memories.”

The young alchemist suspected that part was real, but not for the reason he implied.  Riza took this opportunity to hurl Berthold’s copy of  Alchemic Transmutations of Water into the fire.  Roy knew the text all too well and hated every sentence.  Of course, that book had been his contribution to the scene, and whatever value the tattered copy still had, it was worth the loss to see the pages curl, shrivel and burn.

“I swear I had no idea what the gasoline was for,” he added as if to answer the question of “how” before it was asked.  

“Riza darling,” Roy called out.  His voice dripped with artificial sweetener.

She turned around, fists clenched and nostrils flaring as puffs of visible breath clouded the cold night.  For good measure, she took another swig from the bottle and sloppily wiped the dripping liquid from her lips with her sleeve.  “What?”

“We have company.  The police are here to check up on us and your lovely bonfire.  Would you be a dear and come say hello?”

Roy slipped behind the officers as the blonde bombshell angrily made her way toward the small group.  He patted the back of the men in blue and gently coaxed them down the steps, toward the outwardly fuming Riza.  

“She’s normally so docile and accommodating.  I don’t know what’s gotten into her, but I’ve every confidence that you’ll be able to sort this out.”


	13. Oh, what a tangled web we weave…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this fic sooner, but (as you may already know) [life happened](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/post/177332184851/when-life-gives-you-lemons). And I won't shy away from the fact that this chapter was unplanned and completely off the outline. Sometimes, I sit down to write and what comes out isn't what I intended to write. Hospitals have a way of getting me in a mood.
> 
> So warnings. This is a flashback chapter, and it is not a happy chapter. Trigger warnings for minor character death, small amounts of blood and prolonged fatal illness.
> 
> Also, endless praise and imaginary props to [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos) for beta-ing. She's a joy to work with, plain and simple. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated, especially on a chapter like this. Also, stop by my lonely little tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Each ask, like and/or reblog I get is a gift!
> 
> I'd say happy reading, but...

January 5, 1906, Hawkeye Manor 

As she sat at the kitchen table opposite one of Amestris’ finest, Riza reminded herself that this was not the first time she’d burnt the evidence and told a lie.  Subterfuge was a discipline the Hawkeye family knew how to practice. Ironically, she came by it honestly because, unlike Roy or, she supposed, his unwitting brothers in blue, Riza had not spent her childhood skipping down the primrose path.  Her circumstances were always understood, spelled out in black and white even in her earliest memories.

December 1897, Hawkeye Manor

Elizabeth Hawkeye had not suffered long.  This was Berthold’s mantra. He muttered the sentiment ceaselessly under his breath during the cold winter days after his wife’s passing.  Consumption, the doctor pronounced, usually took more than a couple of weeks to claim a victim. All told, her rapid decline was a mercy.

Riza knew better.

The blonde headed tomboy had initially spied her mother’s bloody handkerchiefs sometime in the spring.  At first, the red-stained cloth was folded neatly in the front pocket of Elizabeth’s crisp apron and then shoved unceremoniously into ornamental boxes scattered throughout the house by the time the summer rolled around.  She did her best to cough quietly, but other symptoms were harder to tuck away.

The rosy glow of youth drained from her face leaving her cheeks gaunt and pale.  Dresses she once filled tented around her dwindling frame. Little Riza pulled at the folds of fabric with furrowed eyebrows and a puzzled expression.  Elizabeth responded before the question could leave her daughter’s lips and ruffled her Riza’s light locks, so different from her own.

“Just the heat’s doing, darling,” she said confidently, even as she stifled a cough in her throat.  Elizabeth’s rich amber eyes avoided their near identical counterparts with solemn intention. “And all those damn stairs.  I’ll tell you a story after I finish dinner. How does that sound?”

It sounded lovely, and the reality was even better.  With a full belly and a warm heart, Riza dozed off listening to the sound of her mother’s genteel voice spinning tales of the great beasts in the far North.  These were vivid memories of Elizabeth’s nomadic childhood, and no doubt the normalcy of exciting bedtime stories reassured her child that all was well. The brown-eyed brunette slipped an idle hand into the pocket of her maroon dressing gown and longingly fingered a small silver case in anticipation of her own evening routine.

Come fall, Elizabeth’s fatigue obliged her to avoid the upstairs entirely.  Not having the finances to sustain a household staff, the lady of Hawkeye Manor schooled her young daughter in the most rudimentary way a woman could make a house a home.  It was a necessary precaution, she admitted to herself. Dust the banister twice a week. Keep the curtains drawn back until just before bed. Change the sheets on Sunday. Mop the hardwood floors on Friday morning, and do not expect praise for a job well done.

Berthold never noticed.  He never noticed anything until one frightfully frigid morning when the fires had not been lit.  Neither had his morning cup of tea been served.

It was only when the retired professor found his wife lying listlessly across the formal sitting room’s settee at half past noon that he called for the doctor.  She had forgotten to make breakfast, Berthold told Dr. Harkness, the local medicine man. The absentminded professor couldn’t offer any other observations as silence filled the room, broken only by the staccato ticking of an ornamental grandfather clock.  The doctor’s frown deepened as his dirty hands pressed the cold end of a stethoscope to Elizabeth’s chest.

“And this came on suddenly?” Dr. Harkness asked skeptically.

“She seemed fine yesterday,” Berthold responded.  “I can’t imagine what’s happened?”

“It would be best to make her comfortable and keep her warm,” Riza heard as she poked her head around the doorframe.  “If she were anyone else, I’d tell her to call Elizabeth Hawkeye. Your wife was a natural healer if ever I met one, so gifted at making patients feel comfortable during times like these.”

“She _is_ a natural healer,” Berthold stressed.  He paused, waiting for the doctor to correct his tense, but the tall man merely straightened up and cast a regretful glance over the frail body of his former assistant.

“Of course,” Dr. Harkness stated flatly.  Riza backed into the hallway and ran her small hands through her unkempt blonde curls.  She knew better than to trust the words of a man whose smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Three days before Elizabeth gasped her last, Riza gathered the evidence.  The bloody cloth and bloated fabric dresses were easy to spot. Riza left several slim cut selections in her mother’s closet.  She pulled a long sleeve black dress from the meager options and hung it on the back of the closet door. Berthold wouldn’t question such providence, if he even cared to select the outfit himself.  The pills and herbal remedies were harder to locate, tucked away behind the towels in the bathroom and stored alongside the strong smelling coffee in the pantry.

She burnt it all that evening in the master bedroom’s fireplace and wiped the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her dirty nightshift.  Elizabeth’s room smelled like a cross between singed ginger and something pungent that frayed Riza’s thoughts and exaggerated the emptiness of her belly.  The frail woman stirred.

“Riza,” she rasped through labored breath.  The tiny blonde crawled to her mother’s side and took her hand.  “Where is your father?”

Riza swallowed thickly as a bitter lump settled in her throat.  “Making dinner,” she lied. In truth, Berthold consoled himself inside his study, leaving only to greet the doctor and receive ill-prepared food and drink from his daughter’s small hands.  Yet, even at the tender age of seven, Riza saw no reason to deny her mother the unyielding kindness of a white lie. “He’s been helping out since you got sick. He says you need to rest. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t, little one,” Elizabeth whispered.  She tried to sit up but winced. Her ragged voice came in bursts of poorly paced phrases.  “I am relieved that… your father… is taking care of you. I had thought… he might not know… what to do… but now you can show him… get through this… together…”

“We’re fine,” Riza said, again biting back the telltale sting of tears.  “And Dr. Harkness comes each day to check on you. To give us more medication to make you feel better.”

“As well he should… for all the help I was to him.  Still… he’s a good ma-” Elizabeth’s words devolved into coughing.  The jagged edges of her voice hurt Riza’s heart, but she held onto the moment, the most lucid interval she’d witnessed since her mother had collapsed.

Without thinking, Riza grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand, sloshing some of the contents onto the bed in her haste.  She pressed the glass to Elizabeth’s lips, expecting her to drink, but the frail woman before her, a person who seemed worlds apart from the smiling caregiver who she’d loved before she had known the meaning of the word, stymied her efforts with a wave of her hand. With wet lips, she adjusted herself and spoke again.

“On the dresser,” Elizabeth managed, pointing weakly to the chest of drawers opposite her bed.

Riza nodded and darted over to retrieve a slim silver case adorned with ornate filigree metal work.  The decorative curls rubbed pleasantly against the young girl’s fingers as she passed it on, and Elizabeth opened the worn metal clasp, producing a slender cigarette from the case.  Having seen her mother smoke countless times before, Riza wasted no time retrieving a lighter from the nightstand. She flicked the metal wheel until a small flame burst forth from the fount of the lighter.  Elizabeth bent forward and inhaled deeply as the tip of the cigarette glowed red like the roaring fire in the hearth. The ailing lady audibly exhaled, emitting a hum of pleasure and a warm plume of smoke from her mouth.

“I love you, little one,” she added with a small but sincere timbre.  “Come lie beside me.”

Without hesitation, Riza climbed into bed with her mother and snuggled into the eiderdown comforter draped across her frail frame.  She shut her eyes tight and willed herself, if only for a moment, to believe in the white lies that would make the coming days easier.  As a dense cloud of clove and tobacco scented smoke comforted her tired senses, she drifted to sleep, paying no mind to the lies on her lips or the mountain of damning evidence crackling merrily in the fireplace.

Her mother hadn’t suffered long and would recover, just like her father had proclaimed.  The Hawkeyes would get through this troubling time together as her mother had foretold. And should the worst come to pass, Berthold would take up the mantle of a doting father and care for his cherished daughter until the end of his days.

It was a beautiful dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morbid though this may be... Infinite imaginary props to you if you can guess what illness Elizabeth really had. (The doctor was wrong. It wasn't TB.)


	14. Where There’s Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I know I've been unreliable with the updates. Sorry. Shit has been hitting the fan with startling frequency, and this chapter's length got away from me. As always, endless praise and imaginary props to my beta, [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos). She's a joy to work with, plain and simple. 
> 
> And if you're feeling totally awesome and generous, feedback is LIFE. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me asks, questions, comments or concerns. Whatever floats your boat!
> 
> Happy Reading! (I mean it this time.)

January 5, 1906, Hawkeye Manor

Penny for your thoughts.

Roy knew the idiom well, having endured the expression on countless occasions from his bunkmate, Maes Hughes.  Academy life had made Roy feel like a stranger in a topsy-turvy world that thrived on discussion and metamorphosis.  In contrast, Hawkeye Manor had been a stagnant place. His coming-of-age haunt was a collection of bricks, mortar and wood that felt less like a home than a museum featuring the mania of Berthold Hawkeye’s all-consuming genius.  

Within those walls, Roy came to think of silence as a comforting sound or rather a collection of ambient noises that called the addled mess between his ears to order.  From that point onward, quiet could shape, sculpt and structure a day’s lesson into a workable framework in Roy’s mind, whereas Maes had yearned for the give and take of conversation and group work.  Roy was a secretive person, not a natural team player, and he suspected his master had also endowed Riza with a similar appreciation for privacy.

She wouldn’t have appreciated the question, but Roy would have spent every cenz of his savings to know what she thought as she idly stirred her cup of coffee.  Riza’s eyes appeared dazed and far away from the conversation taking place at her own kitchen table.

“I understand that you are grieving,” the kinder of the military policemen, someone who identified himself as Officer Scott, offered, “but you need to find a better way to go about things.”  The recent academy graduate could only watch as his brother in blue placed a hand reassuringly on Riza’s shoulder.

Roy grimaced and averted his eyes, knowing that he should have been the one to do that, to comfort his childhood companion.  Maybe he had tried, but life always seemed to get in the way. Theirs was a tangled web of knowledge, hardships and loyalty. Roy would change that if he could, but…  Well, he actually wouldn’t. Pulling on one thread would unravel the tapestry for better or worse.

“My predicament is complicated,” Riza supplied, pulling herself from her reverie.  And for what the words were worth, that much was true, even if it was the understatement of the year.  Her partner-in-crime braced himself for the lie. “I let my emotions take control. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not, young lady,” chided the stern Officer Leonard from across the small kitchen.  He leaned against the wooden counter with his arms folded across his chest and looked down upon Riza with a condescending glint in his deep-set emerald eyes.  “I’ve half a mind to haul you down to Eastern Command tonight for interrogation purposes.”

“Surely that isn’t necessary,” Roy interrupted.  Guilt gnawed at his conscious as he chanced a sideways glance at his partner in crime.  Curiously, she continued to stir her coffee with a wary glint in her eyes. Nevertheless, Roy couldn’t help himself; he persisted.  “There’s been no property damage, other than Miss Hawkeye’s, and the disturbance was short-lived. Riza’s never been in trouble.”

While Officer Scott offered Riza a reassuring glance, his severe partner undercut his kindness and contemptuously addressed Roy.  “We decide what happens next, buddy, and something about this situation doesn’t add up. Who are you, and what are you doing alone in this house with an orphaned minor?  I doubt you’re family with foreign eyes like those?”

Roy’s temper flared.  True, he was no choir boy, least of all after his academy exploits; Maes had seen to that.  Yet, Riza’s virtue was above question, no matter how the memory of her lips burned in his mind.  Even then, as Leonard searched Roy’s features for a nervous tell, the remembered feeling of her skin beneath his hands made his palms itch for more than a sixteen-year-old could rightly give a man like him.

However, the slight against Roy’s lineage expectantly opened a wound that had never properly healed.  Often, too often, his academy classmates had asked mundane questions about his supposed culture that exposed their xenophobic assumptions.  And though, for a time, Roy had scoffed at the idea of depicting himself as someone other than a born and raised Amestrian, discouragement won the day.  Anything short of a grievous slight against his patriotism was met with an innocuous answer designed to placate rather than inform.

The answers had never mattered to begin with.

The combination of insults overloaded the delicate balance of Roy’s composure.  Instinctively, his mouth twisted into an angry snarl, and he opened his mouth to speak without thought of Riza’s earlier warning.  Thankfully, a steady alto voice beat him to the punch.

“He is a trusted family friend,” Riza stated, as even-keel as if she was at target practice.  “He’s staying to help me through this transition, and you are free to take me in to Eastern Command.  It would save me the expense of making the trip myself.”

“To be a family friend, one must have a family, and if I’m not mistaken, you are an orphan by your own admission, Miss Hawkeye,” Officer Leonard posed.

His lips curled in a triumphant sneer, but Riza responded without missing a beat.

“You are correct; my parents are deceased, but rest assured that I have other family.  A particular relative, in fact, who outranks you both. He would not appreciate the waste of time and military resources.”

“We’re a militaristic nation, miss,” Officer Scott added, albeit with a polite undertone.  “Most Amestrian citizens know someone in the military. We can’t go playing favorites, but perhaps we can put this incident behind us given the facts.”  Scott glanced meaningfully at his partner. “If you agree to dispose of your father’s unwanted property in less dangerous ways and stay away from alcohol, we could let you off with a warning.”

The set of Officer Leonard’s jaw spoke volumes, but then, so did the determined look etched into Riza’s features.  She had successfully drawn the attention away from Roy and, therefore, her father’s flame alchemy. At this rate, the police report would be nameless on both accounts, referring to Riza as some variant of the minor R.H. and the newly-minted officer as an unidentified male of biracial origin.  Within three month’s time, the explosion would be old news, already digested by Mrs. Widget’s circle of talkative, if somewhat doddering, widows.

For the sake of their secret, Roy bit his tongue to ensure his own silence.

“Seems fair,” Riza stated with a forced smile in Officer Scott’s direction.  She rose from the table bearing a poised air of finality, her hands clasped in front of her and situated near her slender waist in a way that emphasized her composed demeanor.  The only remnant of her earlier show was the faint scent of vodka laced peach schnapps seeping through her pores. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, it is rather late for any company, even company of an official nature.  Perhaps, I can answer any further questions you have in the morning.”

“Quite right, miss.  I think we have everything we need for our report, and your neighbors should be satisfied knowing that we’ve issued you a warning.  I would be grateful if you’d be so kind as to show us out.” Riza nodded and turned to leave, followed closely by Scott. The amicable pair made their way through the shabby kitchen and down the long hall in companionable silence.  Even their light footfalls fell seamlessly into sync.

The same could not be said for Roy and the surly officer who lagged purposefully behind his partner.  The ambitious alchemist gestured for Officer Leonard to pass before him through the narrow doorway. After a suspicious glance at Roy’s practiced neutral expression, Leonard begrudgingly complied, nearly clipping Roy’s shoulder as he passed.  Their short stroll was not so companionable. The MP’s movements were unbalanced and heavy; he grumbled unpleasant fragments of suspicious thoughts under his breath such as “highly irregular” and “flimsy explanation” to drive the point home.

Though decidedly different, the pair of policemen crossed the threshold of Hawkeye Manor and slipped on their streamlined berets as they started down the overgrown path.  Leonard took the lead; he marched intently toward the vehicle while Officer Scott paused. With a friendly, but sly set to his warm amber eyes, he turned to face Riza and spoke with a voice as smooth as honey.

“Before we leave,” he said diplomatically, “I would like to get the name of your relative in the military.  I understand he may be busy, but there’s no excuse for leaving you to settle your father’s estate all by yourself.  Our outpost has a direct line to Eastern, and we rarely get a chance to use it.” Scott chuckled wryly. “Like you said, this will save you the trouble of a visit since I noticed that you don’t have a phone to keep in touch, and the mail is notoriously unreliable these days.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Riza responded.  Though her demeanor was calm and her speech even, Roy could hear the slight strain in her voice.  “Mrs. Widget lets me use her line when I need to-”

“Mrs. Widget was, shall we say, disturbed by the explosion,” Scott interrupted.  “I’m not sure you’ll find her as amenable as before, given the loss of a family heirloom during the initial blast.”

“Well, I…”  Riza’s words trailed off, and Roy sensed an urgency in the way her hand gripped the flaking frame of the screen door.  The good cop’s play was a smart one. Trust the young woman’s words in case she really was the relative of a higher up at Eastern Command but verify.  They would, of course, return the next day if Riza’s statement proved false with grounds for detainment, search and seizure. No doubt, the house and all its coded secrets would be watched throughout the night.

“Really, it’s no problem,” he purred, relishing his small victory.

Roy couldn’t place his hand on Riza’s shoulder to comfort her, and he didn’t have the funds to make all her debts go away.  He wouldn’t even wish away the past for fear of jeopardizing the promise of the present, but he could save his master’s daughter from a damning lie and protect the research Berthold left behind as he had promised.

“It’s General Grumman,” Roy announced from over Riza’s shoulder.  “Surely, you’ve heard of him.”

“I have,” Officer Scott tentatively replied, his voice filled with intrigue.  He turned to Riza. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Riza answered.  The single syllable caught in her throat, nearly strangled by layers of tension and subtext.  “He’s my grandfather and, like I said, a very busy man.”

“I didn’t know he had a family,” the officer chuckled.  “I must say I look forward to confirming all this with his staff.  It’s not every day that a lowly MP has a good reason to call a general’s office.”  

Scott tipped his brimless hat in Riza’s direction and continued toward his vehicle with a renewed spring in his step.  Leonard, already seated behind the wheel, blew the horn to hasten his partner’s progress. However, the amber-eyed wolf in sheep’s clothing couldn’t resist a parting shot, ordinary as the phrase might have seemed to any eavesdropper.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Riza Hawkeye.  Have a nice evening.”

The seething look on Riza’s face told Roy that a nice evening probably wasn’t in the cards.

* * *

“How could you, Roy?” Riza fumed.

She paced back and forth in front of the tall windows lining the outside wall of the den.  With the curtains drawn, the fire crackling in the hearth was their only source of light. It drew sharp shadows across the young woman’s face while bathing Roy in warmth as he sat on a nearby sofa.  The coffee table, laden with books on everything from alchemy to zoology sat low and heavy in front of Roy. However, his studies were all but forgotten as the conspirators discussed the elephant in the room, or in Riza’s case, the absentee grandfather.

“I had to,” Roy responded with a contrite expression.  He remained crouched over with his head in his hands for a moment and glanced upward to engage Riza.  “We were out of options. They would have been back to detain us if we’d lied to him, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but-”

“Then don’t say it,” she spat.  “I don’t know why you keep trying to bring him into my life.”

“He’s your grandfather.”

“He’s my mother’s father, Roy.  Nothing more than a faceless name on my withered family tree.”

“He’s powerful.  Position.  Influence.  Money.  We needed him to get the MPs off our backs, and I won’t pretend that he couldn’t help you with your father’s debts.”

“I don’t presume to speak for you, Roy, but I can get along just fine on my own.”

Her words stung.  It was a cruel but efficient blow to the young man’s pride, and as usual, Riza wasn’t wrong.  Though Roy had earned his place in the top half of his class, his path to the academy had been anything but traditional.  General Grumman, a longtime associate of his illustrious aunt, had smoothed over the bumps in the resume and secured him a spot amongst the ranks of Amestris’ best, brightest and most ambitious.

And while Roy was sure that Riza had forgiven him for the letters, her rigid posture told him that she hadn’t forgotten.  The young alchemist rose and drifted away from the bright light of the fire, pondering the hows and whys of her terse stance.  Roy admitted to himself that there were parts of his master’s daughter that he would never understand. The view from where she stood had always seemed so gray whereas his own vision never wanted for color.  Still, he took her cold hands in his and summoned the presence of mind to say something (anything) that would make his allegiance clear.

Because if it was either General Grumman or Riza Hawkeye, there was no contest.  Differences be damned.

“I never told him your secrets.  Just small things. The subjects you favored.  Your determination. Enough to let him know you were ok.  And the money he sent went toward my education and yours. Yes, he’s been helpful to me, but even then, it was only because of you.”

“If he was so Goddamned helpful, where was he when my mother died?” Riza asked venomously.

Emotion flooded the young woman’s face as her direct question hit Roy hard and heavy.  As usual, she wore her grief well, like a badge of honor in memoriam for the childhood that slipped between her fingers.  But there was no audience now. No reason to substitute empty words for meaningful action, and Roy took advantage of their isolation.

“Then come with me,” he said, massaging warmth back into her fingers and gently coaxing her toward the comfort of the fire.  “We can start over together.”

Riza nearly pulled away, taken aback by the honest note in her childhood friend’s voice, but the grieving girl allowed herself to be swept away by his unwavering conviction.  When Roy spoke, he sounded confident and steady. The hope in his eyes shone brightly like a lighthouse guiding her toward a foreign shore. True, the destination was no place Riza had ever been, but if Roy told her that things would be better, she would follow, if only because he asked.  This much, she’d already decided.

They settled on the couch, and before Riza could protest, Roy wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.  He smiled at her with a familiar half smirk that brought back memories of their time as cohorts under Berthold’s thumb.  Without agenda, he found himself taking her hands in his again for reasons that had nothing to do with the temperature. Roy had trodden the fine line between friend and lover without fault so far, but he allowed his balance to waver.

“What would we do?” Riza asked.  The question was understated and only half sane, but meaningful nonetheless.  She subtly grinned, hands tightening within her friend’s grasp.

“I’m stationed in East City,” Roy responded.  “We could live there in a small apartment with a nice view and-”

“Separate rooms,” Riza provided with a wary cock of her eyebrow.

“Yes, separate rooms,” he confirmed.  “Maybe an extra bathroom if we’re lucky.  You would go to school, of course. Nothing fancy.  Maybe something public at first.”

“At first?”

“I’m going to pass the State Alchemist Licensing Exam, Riza.  But it’ll take years working around the job. I need time to study for the written portion and to get a hold on flame alchemy for the practical.”

“Guess you can’t make a habit out of blowing up other people’s backyards,” Riza chuckled.

“No,” Roy confirmed, somewhat sheepishly, “just yours.”  

His bandaged hands grasped hers tenderly as he dared to continue dreaming with Riza in tow.  He took a breath and slowly released it before continuing down a path the young alchemist had already created in his mind, the best-case scenario.  In some ways, though the details were mundane, maybe even ordinary, whisking Miss Hawkeye away from everything she shared with Berthold (save his apprentice) had been one of his wildest dreams.  Ordinary had never worked out for Roy, and normalcy wasn’t in Riza stars.

Maybe that could change.

“The debts will be tough, but we can sell this house to satisfy the majority if that’s what you want.  As a second lieutenant, my commission won’t go a long way, but I figure you can take a job waiting tables at the café below our apartment until I get a promotion.”

“Really Roy?  We’re going to live above a café?”

“Oh yes,” he said, returning her sarcasm with a bit of his own brand.  “The whole place will smell like freshly brewed coffee, and we’ll never be able to sleep in on the weekend because of the noise.  The parking will be terribly expensive.”

“Sounds lovely.”  She rolled her eyes playfully.  “And what happens when the owners of the café, my employers, start asking about us?  What do we tell them? Are we brother and sister or protector and ward? Just roommates with a four-year age gap?”

“Three and a half,” he corrected her.  The words flew from his mouth so eagerly that Roy almost cringed.

“Fair enough,” Riza admitted, “but the question stands.  What do we tell them?”

Roy’s lips felt dry, and he licked them to steal a moment of time.  Though he wanted to tell her the truth, honestly required foresight.  Only hindsight was 20/20. Their present was imperfect because their future remained so clouded.  Yes, there was smoke, but the fire remained to be seen. He wouldn’t hold her to friendship or lust or love; he wouldn’t prevent it either.

“Nothing,” Roy finally answered.  “We tell them nothing, and we move.”

The young blonde laughed loudly, tipping her head back and falling against the ragged couch cushions.  After a moment, her schnapps-soaked giggles died down, and she turned her head to stare at the fire, feet curling in Roy’s lap.  He smiled, almost reflexively massaging the tender arch of her feet.

“I am good at keeping a secret,” Riza managed with a small sigh, resigned to the ambiguous state of affairs that their relationship thrived on.

* * *

January 5, 1906, 8:47 p.m., Eastern Command

The lights at Eastern Command shut off promptly at 8:00 p.m.  It was an odd practice, a holdover from the days before Northrop Grumman’s reign, when creature comforts took a backseat to energy conservation and protection from surprise enemy attacks during the night.  And yet, even in peacetime, old man Grumman made no move to amend the rulebook on this account. Though, in his own way, he bent the regulations as best he could by drawing his curtains and switching on a lamp.

But on this particular evening, light was the least of Grumman’s concern.  It was the incessant ringing of a phone in his antechamber.

Before the infernal noise interrupted the general’s train of thought, Grumman had enjoyed a blessed half hour of relative silence, save the subtle scratching of his pen against the fine weighted paper afforded by his station and rank.  Nice stationery, long business lunches and dreadfully dull evenings filled with mountains of paperwork were just a few of the perks associated with his position as lord and master of the most backwater place a general could have landed south of Fort Briggs.  Nevertheless, at that moment, the general would have traded all the false pomp and circumstance for a simple end to the ceaseless ringing of his secretary’s cherished phone.

After another minute, Grumman knew there was only one solution.

The old man’s bones protested and cracked as he rose from his desk and trekked across the fluffy green carpet with the help of his cane.  He approached Trudy’s desk with a reverence reserved only for his lackadaisical secretary, a woman who neither knew nor cared where the bodies were buried but would instigate a rebellion if she believed someone touched her collection of strategically placed desk figurines.  Northrop carefully answered the phone, not bothering to mask the aggravation in his voice.

“Office of General Grumman.”

The caller on the other end paused eliciting a long sigh from the general.

“When people call, they generally expect an answer.  It is late, and I was about finished here. I daresay the number of times you just called made this seem important, or do you have you the wrong number?”

“My apologies, sir.  I, uh, have the right number.  Are you the general, General Grumman?” said an eager young man’s voice from the end of the receiver.

The old fox smirked, never one to show his cards unless absolutely necessary.  “I’m just an East City old timer, doing some after hours filing, but I can pass him a message to the general if you like.  I see him often.”

“This is Officer Liam Scott from the fifth division’s satellite office.  I was hoping to confirm some information we received this evening when responding to a domestic dispute.”

“Are you certain you’ve got the right office, Mr. Scott?” Northrop asked with a dissatisfied timbre.  “I don’t think the general will be interested in a domestic dispute in the countryside, and I assure you that Ms. Widget’s complaints regarding her husband’s pension are well documented if the old bat’s complaining again.”

“No sir,” the young man said almost frantically on the other side of the phone.  “This isn’t professional; it’s something of a personal nature. Do you know if the general has any family, a granddaughter by the name of Riza Hawkeye?”

Time froze, and the cold-blooded general’s blood pumped as adrenaline and intrigue flooded his disused veins.  Despite Trudy’s wrath, Northrop Grumman sat down, grabbing a pen and a scrap of cheap clerical paper. When he spoke again, the general commanded, rather than asked the young MP to continue.

“Go on,” Grumman directed, “and start from the beginning.”


	15. Family Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. So the holidays are upon us. While this is my busiest time of the year (apart from wedding season), I hope to update this every three weeks. We'll see how it goes. I'm also going to try to participate in [Moms Made Fullmetal 2018](https://moms-made-fullmetal-2018.tumblr.com/) and  
> [ Fullmetal Alchemist Secret Santa](http://fullmetalsecretsanta.tumblr.com/). That could slow my progress too; however, if ever you get Young!Royai fever, feel free to check in with on tumblr @ [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Encouragement always helps me make progress, and I might have a sneak peek to share.
> 
> And, as always, I owe endless praise to my beta, [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos). Check out her new fic, [Time Enough At Last](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16491818/chapters/38623811). It's a Greed!Hughes canon divergence work, and it's just what the doctor ordered if you're looking for a fic with a fresh prespective. Also, dear readers, if you're feeling totally awesome and generous, feedback is LIFE. Kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks and comments are so appreciated.

January 6, 1906, Hawkeye Manor 

Riza didn’t remember falling asleep fireside, curled up next to Roy’s slumped figure, but she enjoyed the view of his hopelessly tousled hair all the same.  Curiously, the young woman had slept well considering the bumps, lumps and company borne by the old couch. Or maybe it was because of the bumps, lumps and _company_.  Riza pushed the traitorous thought aside. She had enough problems to deal with, least of all her growing feelings for her father’s apprentice.

Indeed, such frivolous, unworkable emotions were about as convenient as the pounding headache nestled lovingly behind her eyes.  Riza swallowed hard, tasting a dry hint of peach schnapps in the back of her throat. Her body protested when she shuffled the cozy blanket from her shoulders, and Riza’s toes recoiled as they made contact with the cold floor.  Still, she stood, uttering a curse under her clouded breath occasioned by the damp cold.

“Dammit, Roy.”

The firewood was almost gone.  Academy life had made Roy less frugal.  Since his return, he had an annoying habit of using their meager resources as if it was easy to procure more common comforts.  This was just the type of detail that Riza would miss when he finally left the manor.

Without waking Roy, Riza tossed the last of the fuel into the smoldering hearth and adjusted the blanket to cover him.  The young flame alchemist stirred in his sleep, sinking into the added warmth provided by the fire and the fabric. The peaceful sight of him brought a small smile to Riza’s face, but she excused herself and tempered the soft, roundness of her features.  With quick and nearly silent footfalls, the new head of the Hawkeye Household dashed upstairs to ready herself for the day.

Quite strangely, a broom fell flat on the wooden floor of the second story, as if moved by some unseen hand as the young woman passed.  Riza paid it no mind, chalking up most things that went bump during the day or night to the age of her family home. There were more pressing matters on her mind.

For as sure as she was that she had feelings for Roy, Riza was surer still that she didn’t need them.  Were it within her power to do so, she would have left them somewhere secret and safe, like a pretty, fragile thing.

From the privacy of her room, Riza breathed deeply to take in her surroundings and root her mind in the moment.  As had become her custom since the morning after her father died, she took stock of her lot in life. Same as the day before, she’d have traded every last speck of dust in Hawkeye Manor’s dwindling coffers to forget all the ugly truths of her penniless existence:  Orphaned, broke and without the standing to make her own way in the world. Not to mention, the property damage in the backyard, the MP's visit and Grumman, her grandfather…

The general would know by now, Riza realized as she splashed water on her face and took note of the sun’s position in the sky.  It was higher than she’d hoped, reflecting off patches of fresh snow that would turn to slush and mud if the temperature continued to rise.  Riza chastised herself for oversleeping with every ounce of common sense within her being, but panic won the day. This was not how she wanted to meet her grandfather.

What’s more, Roy had a car, and she had little to lose by running.

Suddenly, the thought of their apartment above the coffee shop lit the dark corners of her mind.  Riza imagined modest meals eaten in comfortable silence from the comfort of a small but clean kitchen – their kitchen.  On chilly mornings, Roy would pore over his notes for the licensing exam while Riza sipped black coffee. And as she mulled over her meager assets – a crumbling house with mismatched furniture, back due bills and other debts – that dream felt more like a possibility dangling just outside of her grasp.  That life could be hers if she dared to reach out and take it.

Roy’s jest from the day before echoed in her ears and brought a blush to the apples of her cold-bitten cheeks.  Something about burning her house down being… _“easier than asking you to move in with me?”_

Just then, an old bag discarded in a dusty corner of the room caught Riza’s eye.  The brown fabric had grown dingy over the years from use and abuse. At one time, Riza recalled, it had been fashionable.   _The perfect schoolbag for a studious scholar_ , her mother had proclaimed with equal parts pride and joy.  Riza had spun around for Elizabeth in the foyer, heaving the satchel along with her small body.   _Ready to go, my love?_  She asked.

Riza was.

Without a second thought, Riza dashed around her girlhood room, gathering odds and ends at random and shoving them unceremoniously in the shallow bag.  The answer was clear; it had been staring her in the face since the moment she buried her father. Her time at Hawkeye Manor was over. There was nothing left for her there except dirt, dust and the remnants of a duty that ran so deep it left marks on her skin and in her soul.

Riza dressed in a hurry and slipped on her coat.  After slinging her satchel over her shoulder, she threw caution to the wind and audibly bounded down the staircase as if she was all of 12 years old, happy to play with Roy, her father’s newest student.  The front door was a finish line that Riza intended to cross, but not without him, not without the boy who’d convinced her that the world was wide and wild and wonderful. He’d never given her cause to hope before.  Yet, Riza had never been more certain that he was waiting for her to make the first move, propriety be damned.

Still, separate rooms.

“Roy!” Riza exclaimed, throwing open the door to the den.  There was a light in her amber eyes that had only just ignited.  It was quickly snuffed out by the presence of an old, bespectacled gentleman with two stars on each shoulder seated on the sofa with Roy.  His uniform was wrinkled, but not as badly as his face. He wore a smile that looked stiff, not unlike an expression on a plaster bust. She could have sworn there was glue smeared in his mustache.

Roy, equally wrinkled but more disheveled, stood.  His features were smooth, but his cock-eyed smile overplayed his hand.  Riza’s stomach dropped; they’d been found.

“Riza,” he said slowly and decisively, “won’t you come here and meet your grandfather?”

* * *

 Riza made tea if only because that was the sort of thing one did when they were meeting their estranged grandfather.  The old, silver tea tray was tarnished, and Riza buffed the blackened part with a dishrag to satiate her pride, while she waited for the kettle to boil.  How could that man show up on her doorstep after all the time? How could he sit on her couch and drink her tea and pretend that he had a say in his minor granddaughter’s future?

And, above all, how had he gotten to Hawkeye Manor so quickly and in spite of the snow?

The kettle sounded, and Riza angrily shut off the gas.  She kicked herself for thinking she could leave free and clear.  The image of the apartment above the coffee shop evaporated like fog.  Reality was sharp and clear. Whatever her future held, answers were waiting for her in the den.

Riza balanced the tea tray in front of her like something distasteful and navigated the corridors of Hawkeye Manor until she found herself serving tea to General Grumman, her grandfather. He accepted the chipped teacup with both hands.  Though Northrop smiled gratefully, he didn’t drink a drop. Roy offered Riza his seat on the sofa and gravitated toward the windows. The young alchemist turned to face the tall panes of glass; however, his eyes fell to the floor.

“My condolences, Riza, on the loss of your father,” Grumman offered, almost cheerily.  “I’m sure he made his thoughts toward me known to you, and I daresay the feeling was mutual at one time.  However, I am not here to dwell on the past.”

“Then what are you here for?” Riza rightly inquired.  Slowly, she sipped her sunny sweet tea, though she would have enjoyed it more under almost any other circumstance.  Nevertheless, waste was tantamount to sin.

The old man’s shoulders shook as he chuckled.  “Why, I thought that would be obvious. Roy always said you were an intelligent young lady; give it a guess.”

Grumman fixed Riza with a shrewd, but kind gaze.  She responded quickly, too quickly for her own liking to shift his attention somewhere, anywhere else.  “I suppose you are here to assess my situation. Help distribute my father’s assets. Settle debts.”

The general laughed, leaning in on the knob of his embellished cane.  The glint of his glasses shielded his eyes from view, but Riza caught sight of Roy’s expression.  His face was painfully contorted into a neutral grimace. Riza panicked inwardly. It would be weeks, months maybe, before Berthold’s estate was in order; however, Riza was no fool.  She’d known Grumman would try to whisk her away from the manor the moment she’d seen the weary gentleman perched on her sofa, but he couldn’t possibly make his move so quickly.

“Assets and debts,” Grumman echoed.  “What a practical child Berthold managed to raise.  You are your mother’s daughter in that way. No, girl.  My solicitor, Bernard will make short work of all this.”  The old man moved his can in a circular motion and looked around the room to make his point.  “I give him so little to do; he may thank you for the uptick in business.”

“But I can-“

“I have no doubt, you could do it yourself,” Grumman added.  His eyes narrowed under the thick, horn-rimmed lenses. “But is that really the best use of a young woman’s time?  You should be catching up in school, making friends and attending cotillions or whatever the young people are doing these days.  East City isn’t Central, but I think you’ll find it advantageous in its own way.”

Riza’s mouth worked faster than her brain, and thought stumbled heedlessly from her mouth.  “Roy and I have already started-”

“Yes,” Northrop noted shifting his gaze to Roy, “I’ve already had a chat with Lieutenant Mustang about his role in this family affair.  That’s not to say I don’t appreciate all the help he’s provided over the years, but we’ve agreed it’s high time he set his sights on his own career.  He can leave your welfare to me; I have experience with raising daughters.”

“You don’t understand, Grandfather,” Riza said, almost frantically.  She swallowed her discretion and played the best card in her hand to stop the inevitable.  “He has my father’s research; I promised him I’d make sure it was put to good use. I must honor-”

“You must let dead men lie, Riza,” Grumman asserted.  “I might have an eccentric reputation, but I am no fool.  I see what is happening here. Not that I blame the two of you, obviously.  It is my responsibility in a way for setting Mr. Mustang into your path. I never expected Berthold to be so blind toward the bond you share, but that’s an alchemist for you.”

“What do you have against alchemists?” Riza spat.  “Father always said you resented him for his science, that you didn’t want Momma to be with him because of alchemy.”

Grumman’s head dipped, and momentarily the plaster grin fell away from his face, illuminated by the fading firelight.  “It was never his alchemy, Riza,” he stated honestly. “Marriage ruined your father and my Elizabeth. However you may feel now about each other and whatever you may have promised Berthold, I cannot allow history to repeat itself.”


	16. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! It happened again; I'm sorry. I got caught up with tumblr events and holiday cheer, but this time I do have something to show for it. If you're wondering what kept me away, be sure to check out [Cost of Living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228519/chapters/40513301), my gift fic for my wonderful beta, [vino_and_doggos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vino_and_doggos/pseuds/vino_and_doggos). A big thanks to her for helping me get back on track after another unintentional hiatus. Keeping me on the grammatically straight and metaphorically narrow can be a full-time job. Check out her new chapter fic, [Duality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219705/chapters/40492901), if you (like me) are 100% here for bisexual!Roy.
> 
> Also, special thanks to [ruikosakuragi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi/works) for letting me borrow the name "Tereza" from her marvelous FMA AU [into the blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15224663/chapters/35311769). Do you like royai? Do you like the little mermaid? And be honest here, do you like a little smut? If the answer is yes, then you'll love into the blue.
> 
> As always, feedback is so appreciated. Kudos, bookmarks and comments are literal life. Also, check out my tumblr, [flourchildwrites](https://flourchildwrites.tumblr.com/). Send me asks, questions, comments or whatever else may be on your mind. Happy reading!

As the saying went, the eyes are a window to the soul, but Northrop Grumman did not agree.  He knew better than most that eyes could lie, cheat and steal just as well as a forked tongue.  Not all snakes slithered through the tall grass of a dry field or lay in wait at the low center of a wet ditch.  Duplicitous creatures wore many different skins, and they occupied every tier of society from barrister to barmaid.  No, the best way to divine the character of a person had nothing to do with physical attributes.

It was all in the way they played chess.

Luckily enough, Grumman couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t interested in the grand game.  As a knock-kneed schoolboy, Northrop had often taken his set to Central City Park to challenge men three times his age.  He still documented his wins, losses and draws in a trusty leather-bound book, a gift from his older brother. Life was a riddle spelled out in ebony and ivory, recorded for posterity in much the same way.

By the age of 61, Grumman could confidently say that he’d learned more about the world from those sixty-four squares than he had from the large tomes which adorned his office walls.  Ever a student of the game itself, Northrop’s passion for play continued at every available opportunity. Yes, Grumman, then a disused general, had faced challengers from almost every walk of life, but the most interesting opponents were often the ones he least suspected.

During a particularly brisk November afternoon almost 20 years ago, Northrop had faced a young alchemist with a question.  The scene had been cordial at first. Too cordial. The young man had smiled kindly from across the chessboard, making excuses about his rusty gameplay and perplexed by Grumman’s request for a match when a simple “yes” would have sufficed.

“It’s been ages,” the young man had proclaimed, assuring the older gentleman of an effortless victory.  Thinking back, Grumman realized that it had been easy to overlook the fire in the young alchemist’s eyes, a flame that begged an unsettling question which he never mustered the nerve to ask.

What had Berthold Hawkeye been burning for?

Given his rank, it hadn’t been difficult for Grumman to lay hands on a file bearing such an auspicious name; however, the contents of that file had clashed with the legacy of the Hawkeye patriarch.  Truly, Berthold Hawkeye, I, was an individual who needed no introduction, least of all to any person who wore royal blue in service of the state. Grumman had known Berty as a man who, in the eyes of his adoring public, had created peace by making weapons of war.  No doubt, the elder Hawkeye’s thick file contained numerous accolades detailing his illustrious career. Among them, he oversaw the mass production of military equipment, fortified Fort Briggs and died dramatically on the job at the hands of a persistent (but treatable) case of influenza.

By comparison the file belonging to Berthold Hawkeye, II, had been paper thin.  From beginning to end, his records had reeked of disdain for the institution his father served, entrenching the young alchemist within the theoretical realm of academia.  The only outliers had been court documents striking the suffix from his moniker and an impassioned editorial piece which condemned the State Alchemist program’s close association with the military.  These parts of the young man’s past had left Grumman with an unfavorable impression and had furthered his suspicion that Berthold, though wellbred and thoroughly educated, had never quite grown up, being coddled and catered to by well-meaning women who sought to fill the void left by his father’s absence.

Berthold’s gameplay had done nothing to improve that impression.  Though frightfully unmemorable, the alchemist’s strategy had been single-mindedly aggressive.  What fervor he possessed had revealed itself as stubbornness against the black and white squares.  With each move, he had pushed forward to claim Grumman’s pieces with little regard for his own players, save the king.  A rook here, a knight there and finally his king, bettered by a bishop from across the board. The win had been easy, too easy, and Grumman had taken no joy from the experience, only bitter knowledge.

Northrop had told the young alchemist that he would not support the marriage.  He would not -  _ could not _ \- in good conscience give Berthold Hawkeye his blessing to marry Elizabeth, his darling daughter and only child.  Naturally, Elizabeth had pleaded at first, begged her father to get to know Berthold. She’d called the alchemist a thoughtful academic, as devoted to his craft as he was to the love of his life.  Grumman had called him a stubborn mule, blind sighted by the fiction concocted within his own mind. Without a doubt, Berthold was an unsuitable husband.

And true to form, the alchemist, fueled by indignation, had stubbornly pursued his goal with single-minded determination over (and perhaps because of) Grumman’s protestations.  Though Grumman was loath to remember it, Berthold and Elizabeth had married on a blustery March morning. And even as Elizabeth’s newly-minted happily-ever-after had tarnished with time, Northrop was once happy to be wrong about his son-in-law.  Memories streamed through the old man’s mind like a thick movie reel, frames sounding as they sped by with frightening speed. 

The newlyweds bought a summer home in the Eastern countryside courtesy of a trust fund Berthold nearly drained dry.  Within two years, Elizabeth welcomed a daughter in her sun-drenched manor, and Professor Hawkeye took his first - some said well deserved - sabbatical from the drudgery of teaching.  Even from the short end of life, Northrop recalled cradling a baby girl named Riza Hawkeye for the first time. The old man bit back bittersweet tears as he considered the origin of this new life’s name.  Tereza Grumman, his late wife, would have been deeply moved by the remembrance.

Grumman marveled again, as he saw the infant’s tiny fist break through the folds of her tight swaddle in his mind’s eye.  Determined, little Riza wiggled in his old arms, perturbed by the afternoon light streaming through the den’s tall windows, and the baby shut her blue eyes as her grandfather pressed his palm against the dark hair atop her small head.  Chuckling ruefully given the bitter fruit of hindsight, Grumman realized that Tereza’s name suited Riza. So willful but patient. So delicate but full of robust life. And yet, at that moment, all he had considered was her eyes. For as sure as the color of her hair would soon favor her father, Grumman had been certain that Riza, like her mother before her, would have Tereza’s unflinching gaze.  

But this peace was not to last.  Northrop's stream of vision fast forwarded two years.  Little Riza toddled about the formal sitting room as Elizabeth cleared Berthold’s forgotten plates and cups from the walnut coffee table.  The old man waited patiently with a stiff smile as his daughter served him tea, placing his cup on a coaster despite the many ring marks staining the fine wood of the table.  The fireplace, not used in months, still smelled vaguely of soot, and the spiced scent of earthy clove filled the air, rising in a smoky stream from the cigarette in Elizabeth’s tarnished ashtray.

“Sit down, please,” Grumman urged, gesturing to the seat next to him.

Elizabeth smiled.  The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper as she sat next to her father, and Elizabeth pawed at the unruly stains on her old dress.  Grumman recognized it from her collegiate days, but true to form said nothing. Riza ran up to her mother with a battered children's book, pressing the dog-eared cover to her mother knees.  Elizabeth scooped her up, twisting a few of Riza’s blonde curls around her fingers as the child settled in her lap and began thumbing through the pages.

“There always seems like there’s so much to do in a house of this size,” Elizabeth replied.  Her voice was laced with false optimism. “I had to let Cheryl go,” she explained, “but I’m sure Berthold will work out his problems with Eastern University soon.”

“Problems?” Grumman asked.  His eyes narrowed over his flashing glasses.

“A little spat about publishing his research and the courses he’s assigned to teach in the fall.”  Elizabeth’s voice was tense, almost terse, but she continued, her tone filled with forced buoyancy.  “Berthold was thinking of taking a leave of absence to work on his alchemy, but the university isn’t inclined to hold his position.  Plus, the income would be nice.”

“If it’s money you need,” Northrop added carefully, watching his daughter’s features as he made an offer he knew she would refuse, “I’d be happy to-”

“No,” Elizabeth said curtly.  With one arm coiled protectively around Riza’s small frame, she took a quick sip of tea.  “Berthold is a proud man, Father. I wouldn’t mind, but it won’t be necessary. Besides, we’ll be back in East City before the end of the month.  I’m sure of it. And if we’re not, I’ve been thinking of going back to work.”

“Work?” Grumman echoed quizzically.  “Surely there is enough of that around here, my dear.  Riza is still quite young, and you never completed your course of study.  Perhaps you would consider accepting a small stipend to finish your education? Consider it an advance on your inheritance.”

Elizabeth answered her father’s question with a perturbed expression.  “I said no. I realize that I am not a proper doctor, and I know that Riza is young.  But Dr. Harkness is offering flexible hours and decent pay as his assistant. It would be enough to keep the house while Berthold finishes his research.”

Grumman knocked his cane against the floor with thinly-veiled frustration, glancing sideways at his tired daughter and the babe balanced thoughtfully on her knees.  Riza flipped through the pages, admiring the pretty pictures with a serene expression, blissfully unaware of the weighty conversation between her mother and grandfather.

“Is he still good to you?” Grumman asked pointedly.  “No father wants to see his daughter waiting on a man who would rather spend time with his books than his family.”

“Berthold isn’t good with young children,” Elizabeth retorted defensively.  “He and Riza will bond when she can understand him, learn from him. For what’s it’s worth, I love him like you loved mother.  Let’s not pretend that things were always wonderful between you two, but neither of you left or took the easy way out.”

Grumman recalled his daughter’s nomadic childhood, courtesy of his militaristic, ladder climbing lifestyle.  There were long months of silent deployment and postings everywhere from the frigid North to the humid South.  Faithfulness was never a hallmark of his marriage, but the affairs were discrete and tolerated in light of a reciprocal arrangement.  And if it had been another woman or man in Berthold’s life, Northrop would have known the remedy. However, the alchemist’s mistress was the dreaded science he studied so long and hard in his musty office.  Still, his daughter’s stubborn glare told him his protestations were futile.

“This is only temporary,” Elizabeth stressed, kissing the top of her babbling toddler’s head.  “We’ll be back in East City before you know it.”

But they never made it back to East City, Grumman reminded himself as again, his mind’s eye pushed forward.  Less than a handful of years later, their fate was sealed by the fury of Berthold's fixation and the fire he longed to create.  Elizabeth’s correspondence grew infrequent as her figure slimmed, hands worked to the bone for the few cenz her experience alone commanded, but still, Riza grew, and her grandfather worried from afar.  Somehow, he felt certain that his own failings as a family man had instilled an illogical duty in Elizabeth, a fact he felt compelled to remedy.

“Are you asking me to leave my husband?” Elizabeth asked.  Her chestnut eyes fixed on her father, a flush rising in her face.  With stiffened posture and a stained medical apron cutting a V across her dwindling figure, she breathed deeply.  The rise and fall of her flustered chest matched the cadence of her breathing as she tucked wisps of unkempt brown hair underneath the band of her austere nurse’s cap.

“I'm asking you to see reason,” Northrop answered, seated on the edge of the old love seat in a house where his daughter gave more love than she received.  “Your husband does not intend to return to Eastern University. Whatever his reason, he will not consider a state alchemist certification, and though you have said he is amenable to apprentices, he has taken no steps toward advertising his services.”

Elizabeth threw her arms up in frustration and pivoted away from the penetrating gaze of her father.  She brought the cigarette dangling between her middle and index finger to her mouth and inhaled greedily.  With a shaky breath, she exhaled, watching the modest fire crackle in the hearth.

“Come back to Central,” he pleaded, rising from his seat with a serious set to his pointed face.  “Finish your education. I will send Riza to a good school, and Berthold can attend to his own needs for a time.  Perhaps without you lessening his responsibilities he will also see reason and begin to make a living again. I cannot stand to see my daughter and granddaughter living in these conditions.  If your mother could see you now she’d-”

“How rich of you,” Elizabeth exclaimed, turning to face the older military man with pride in her practiced posture.  “If mother was here, she’d be away on  _ vacation _ again with Mr. Cornell, Mrs. Skimmer or Lieutenant Ventura.  And you’d be  _ working late _ night after night.  I don’t presume to tell you how to live your life.  You stay out of my marriage, and get out of my house.”

“Now Elizabeth,” Grumman started, advancing toward his daughter with a menacing tone that he had not used since his days at Fort Briggs.  The wool of his uniform felt heavy, each medal an albatross that distanced him from his only child. “Be reasonable. You cannot continue like this.  Berthold is a sick man!”

“I took an oath, Father,” she barked back.  “And that might not mean anything to you unless it’s convenient, but my word is my bond.  My husband believes in his work, and I will follow him every step of the way. Now leave!”

The finger pointed toward the door left little room for interpretation, and Grumman left as quietly and suddenly as he had arrived, knowing that the battle was lost.  He remembered catching a view of Berthold on his way out. The once impassioned alchemist looked down upon Grumman from the second story landing, holding his fair daughter’s hand as the child leaned against the slats in the railing.  Northrop nodded curtly and slipped on his flat bill cap as a sickening smirk crossed Berthold’s features.

“Checkmate,” the old man heard faintly as the thick door of Hawkeye Manor slammed behind him.

 

To be continued...


End file.
